H.DF.VEIU::   S 


GARRYOWEN 


GARRYOWEN 


BY 

H.  DE  VERE  STACPOOLE 
Author  of  "The  Blue  Lagoon,"  "The  Crimson  Azalecu"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 
BY  DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


This  book  is  dedicated  to 

My  little  dog  "Whisky," 

A  thorough  sportsman  and  a  faithful  friend 


2057918 


GARRYOWEN 


GARRYOWEN 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  great  old  house  of  Drumgool,  ugly  as  a  barn, 
with  a  triton  dressed  in  moss  and  blowing  a  conch 
shell  before  the  front  door,  stands  literally  in  the  roar 
of  the  sea. 

From  the  top  front  windows  you  can  see  the  At- 
lantic, blue  in  summer,  grey  in  winter,  tremendous  in 
calm  or  storm ;  and  the  eternal  roar  of  the  league-long 
waves  comes  over  the  stunted  fir  trees  sheltering  the 
house  front,  a  lullaby  or  menace  just  as  your  fancy 
wills. 

Everything  around  Drumgool  is  on  a  vast  and  splen- 
did scale.  To  the  east,  beyond  Drumboyne,  beyond 
the  golden  gorse,  the  mournful  black  bogs,  and  the 
flushes  of  purple  heather,  the  sun.  with  one  sweep  of 
his  brush  paints  thirty  miles  of  hills. 

Vast  hills  ever  changing,  and  always  beautiful,  gone 
now  in  the  driving  mist  and  rain,  now  unwreathing 
themselves  of  cloud  and  disclosing  sunlit  crag  and  pur- 
ple glen  outlined  against  the  far-off  blue,  and  magical 
with  the  desolate  beauty  of  distance. 

The  golden  eagle  still  haunts  these  hills,  and  lying 
upon  the  moors  of  a  summer's  day  you  may  see  the 


2  GARRYOWEN 

peregrine  falcon  hanging  in  the  air  above  and  watch 
him  vanish  to  the  cry  of  the  grouse  he  has  struck  down, 
whose  head  he  will  tear  off  amidst  the  gorse. 

Out  here  on  the  moors,  under  the  sun  on  a  day  like 
this,  you  are  in  the  pleasant  company  of  Laziness  and 
Loneliness  and  Distance  and  Summer.  The  scent  of 
the  gorse  is  mixed  with  the  scent  of  the  sea,  and  the 
silence  of  the  far-off  hills  with  the  sound  of  the  bil- 
lows booming  amidst  the  coves  of  the  coast. 

Except  for  the  sea  and  the  sigh  of  the  wind  amidst 
the  heather  bells  there  is  not  a  sound  nor  token  of 
man  except  a  pale  wreath  of  peat  smoke  away  there 
six  miles  towards  the  hills  where  lies  the  village  of 
Drumboyne,  and  that  building  away  to  the  west  to- 
wards the  sea,  which  is  Drumgool  House. 

The  railway  stops  at  Coyne,  fifteen  miles  to  the 
east,  as  though  civilisation  were  afraid  of  venturing 
further. 

Now  if  you  stand  up  and  shade  your  eyes  and  look 
over  there  to  the  north  and  beyond  Drumgool  House, 
you  will  notice  a  change  in  the  land.  There  is  the 
beginning  of  the  four-mile  track — four  miles  of  vel- 
vety turf  such  as  you  will  get  nowhere  else  in  the  whole 
wide  world;  the  finest  training  ground  in  existence. 

The  Frenches  of  Drumgool  (no-  relation  of  any 
other  Frenches)  have  trained  many  a  winner  on  the 
four-mile  track.  Once  upon  a  time  those  big  stables 
there  at  the  back  of  Drumgool  House  were  filled  with 
horses.  "  Once  upon  a  time  " — is  not  that  the  sor- 
rowful motto  of  Ireland? 

This  morning,   as  beautiful  a   September   morning 


GARRYOWEN  3 

as  one  could  wish  to  see,  a  bath-chair  drawn  by  a 
spirited-looking  donkey  stood  at  the  front  steps  of 
Drumgool  House. 

By  the  donkey's  head,  Moriarty,  a  long,  foxy,  evil- 
looking  personage  in  leggings,  stood  with  a  blackthorn 
stick  in  his  hand  and  a  straw  in  his  mouth.  He  was 
holding  the  donkey  by  the  bridle,  while  Miss  Frenchv 
was  being  assisted  into  the  bath-chair  by  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll,  the  cook  and  general  factotum  of  the  French 
household. 

Miss  French  had  on  a  huge  black  felt  hat  adorned 
with  a  dilapidated  ostrich  feather.  Her  pale,  incon- 
siderable face  and  large  dark  eyes  had  a  decidedly 
elfish  look  seen  under  this  structure.  She  had  also 
on  a  cloak,  fastened  at  the  neck  by  a  Tara  brooch,  and 
Mrs.  Driscoll  was  wrapping  a  grebe  boa  round  her 
neck,  though  the  day  was  warm  enough  in  all  con- 
science. 

Miss  French  had  a  weakness  of  the  spine  which  af- 
fected her  legs.  The  doctors  had  given  this  condition 
a  long  Latin  name,  but  the  country  people  knew  what 
was  wrong  with  the  child  much  better  than  the  doctors. 
She  was  a  changeling.  Had  Miss  French  been  born 
of  poor  folk  a  hundred  years  ago  she  would  have 
undoubtedly  met  with  a  warm  reception  in  this  world, 
for  she  would  have  been  put  out  on  a  hot  shovel  for 
the  fairies  to  take  back.  She  was  a  changeling,  and 
she  looked  it  as  she  sat  in  the  bath-chair,  "  all  eyes, 
like  an  owl,"  while  Mrs.  Driscoll  put  the  boa  round  her 
throat. 

"  Now  keep  the  boa  round  you,  Miss  Erne,"  said 


4  GARRYOWEN 

Mrs.  Driscoll ;  "  and  don't  be  gettin'  on  the  cliffs, 
Moriarty,  but  keep  in  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  and  go 
aisy  with  her.  Be  sure,  whatever  you  do,  to  keep 
clear  of  them  cliffs." 

Moriarty  hit  the  donkey  a  blow  on  the  ribs  with 
his  blackthorn  stick  just  as  a  drummer  strikes  a  drum, 
with  somewhat  of  the  same  result  as  to  sound,  and  the 
vehicle  started. 

Mr.  French  had  trained  a  good  many  winners,  and 
Moriarty  was  Mr.  French's  factotum  in  stable  mat- 
ters ;  what  Moriarty  did  not  know  about  horses  would 
be  scarcely  worth  mentioning. 

Very  few  men  know  the  true  inwardness  of  a  horse — 
what  he  can  do  under  these  circumstances  and  under 
those,  his  spirit,  his  reserve  force,  his  genius. 

A  horse  is  much  more  than  an  animal  on  four  legs. 
Legs  are  the  least  things  that  win  a  race,  though  es- 
sential enough,  no  doubt.  It  is  the  soul  and  spirit 
of  the  beast  that  brings  the  winner  along  the  last  laps 
of  the  Rowley  Mile,  that  strews  the  field  behind  at 
Tattenham  Corner,  that,  with  one  supreme  effort,  gains 
victory  at  the  winning-post  by  a  neck. 

It  is  this  intuitive  knowledge  of  the  psychology  of 
a  horse  that  makes  a  great  trainer  or  a  great  jockey. 

Moriarty  was  possessed  of  this  knowledge,  but  he 
was  possessed  of  many  other  qualities  as  well.  He 
could  turn  his  hand  to  anything — rabbit  catching, 
rearing  pheasants,  snaring  birds,  doctoring  dogs,  car- 
pentry. 

"  Moriarty ! "  said  Miss  French,  when  they  were  out 
of  earshot  of  the  house. 


GARRYOWEN  5 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Moriarty. 

"  Drive  me  to  the  cliffs !  " 

Moriarty  made  no  reply,  but  struck  the  donkey  an- 
other drum-sounding  blow  on  the  ribs,  and,  pulling 
at  its  bridle,  turned  the  vehicle  in  the  direction  in- 
dicated. 

"  You'll  be  afther  loosin'  thim  things,"  said  Mo- 
riarty, without  turning  his  head,  as  he  toiled  beside 
the  donkey  up  the  steep  cliff  path. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Miss  French.  "  Besides, 
we  can  pick  them  up  as  we  go  back.  Come  off ! " 

She  was  apostrophising  the  boa.  The  big  hat,  the 
flap  of  which,  falling  on  the  ground,  had  drawn  Mo- 
riarty's  attention,  was  now  followed  by  the  boa,  and 
Miss  French,  free  of  her  lendings  all  but  the  cloak,  sat 
up,  a  much  more  presentable  and  childlike  figure,  the 
wind  blowing  amid  her  curls,  and  her  brown,  seaweed- 
coloured  eyes  full  of  light  and  mischief. 

"  Now,  Moriarty,"  said  Miss  French,  when  she  had 
cleared  herself  sufficiently  for  action,  "  gimme  the 
reins." 

Moriarty  unwisped  the  reins  from  the  saddle  of  the 
harness  and  placed  them  in  the  small  hands  of  his 
mistress,  who,  as  an  afterthought,  had  unlatched  the 
Tara  brooch  and  slipped  off  the  cloak. 

"  Arrah !  what  have  yiz  been  afther?"  said  Mori- 
arty, looking  back  at  the  strewn  garments  as  though 
he  had  only  just  discovered  what  the  child  had  been 
doing.  "  Glory  be  to  God !  if  you  haven't  left  the 
half  of  yourself  behint  you  on  the  road.  Sure,  what 
way  is  that  to  be  behavin'  ?  Now,  look  here,  and  I'll 


6  GARRYOWEN 

tell  you  for  onct  and  for  good,  if  you  let  another 
stitch  off  you,  back  yiz'll  go,  donkey  and  all,  and  its 
Mrs.  Driscoll  will  give  you  the  dhressin'.  Musha!  but 
you're  more  thrubble  than  all  me  money.  Let  up  wid 
thim  reins  and  don't  be  jibbin'  the  donkey's  mouth!" 

The  last  sentence  was  given  in  a  shout  as  he  ran 
to  the  donkey's  head  just  in  time  to  avert  disaster. 

Moriarty  sometimes  spoke  to  Miss  French  as  though 
she  were  a  dog,  sometimes  as  though  she  were  a  horse, 
sometimes  as  though  she  were  his  young  mistress. 
Never  disrespectfully.  It  is  only  an  Irish  servant  that 
can  talk  to  a  superior  like  this  and  in  so  many  ways. 

"  I'm  not  jibbing  his  mouth,"  replied  Miss  French. 
*'  Think  I  can't  drive !  You  can  hold  on  to  the  reins 
if  you  like,  though,  and,  see  here,  you  can  smoke  if  you 
want  to." 

"  It's  not  you  I'd  be  axin'  if  I  wanted  to,"  replied 
Moriarty,  halting  the  donkey  on  a  part  of  the  path 
that  was  fairly  level,  so  as  to  get  a  light  for  his  pipe 
before  they  emerged  into  the  sea  breeze  on  the  cliff  top. 

Miss  French  watched  the  operation  critically,  she 
did  not  in  the  least  resent  the  tone  of  the  last  few 
words. 

Moriarty  was  a  character.  In  other  words,  he  had 
a  character.  Moriarty  would  not  have  given  the  wall 
to  the  Lord  Lieutenant  himself.  Moriarty  was  not  a 
servant,  but  a  retainer.  He  received  wages,  it  is  true, 
but  he  did  not  work  for  them ;  he  just  worked  for  the 
interests  of  the  Frenches. 

He  had  a  huge  capacity  for  doing  the  right  thing, 
and  a  knack  of  doing  everything  well. 


GARRYOWEN  7 

The  latter  he  proved  just  now  by  lighting  his  pipe 
with  a  single  match,  though  the  sea  breeze,  despite  the 
shelter  of  the  cliff  top,  was  gusting  and  eddying  around 
him. 

The  pipe  alight,  he  set  the  donkey  going,  and  the 
next  minute  they  were  on  the  cliff  top. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  sea  lay  below,  far  below,  and  stretching  like  a 
sapphire  meadow  to  the  rim  of  the  world. 

You  could  hear  the  song  of  the  breakers  in  the  cave 
and  on  the  sand  and  the  cry  of  the  seagulls  from  the 
cliff  and  rock,  and  the  breeze  amid  the  cliff  grass,  but 
these  sounds  only  emphasised  the  silence  of  the  great 
sunlit  sapphire  sea. 

The  sea  is  a  very  silent  thing.  Three  thousand  miles 
of  pampas  grass  would  emit  more  sound  under  the  lash 
of  the  wind  than  the  whole  Atlantic  Ocean,  and  a  swal- 
low in  its  flight  makes  more  sound  than  the  forty-foot 
wave,  that  can  wreck  a  pier  or  break  a  ship,  makes 
in  its  passage  towards  the  shore. 

Up  here,  far  above  the  shore,  the  faint,  sonorous 
tune  of  wave  upon  wave  breaking  upon  the  sands  below 
served  only  to  accentuate  the  essential  silence  of  the 
sea. 

Through  this  sound  could  be  distinguished  another, 
immense,  faint,  dream-like — the  breathing  of  leagues 
of  coast;  a  sound  made  up  of  the  boom  of  billows  in 
the  sea  caves,  and  the  bursting  of  waves  on  rock  and 
strand,  but  so  indefinite,  so  vague,  that,  listening,  one 
sometimes  fancied  it  to  be  the  wind  in  the  bent  grass, 
or  a  whisper  from  the  stunted  firs  on  the  landward 
side  of  the  cliff. 

Away  out  on  the  sparkling  blue,  the  brown  sails  of 
fisher  boats  bound  for  Bellturbet  filled  to  the  light 
wind,  and  a  mile  out  from  shore,  and  stretching  south- 


GARRYOWEN  9 

westward,  the  Seven  Sisters  rocks  broke  from  the  sea. 
That  was  all.  But  it  was  immensely  beautiful. 

Nowhere  else  perhaps  can  you  get  such  loneliness 
as  here,  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland — loneliness  with- 
out utter  desolation.  The  vast  shore,  left  just  as  the 
gods  hewed  it  in  the  making  of  the  world,  lies  facing 
the  immense  sea.  They  tell  each  other  things.  You 
can  hear  the  billow  talking  to  the  cave,  and  the  cave  to 
the  billow,  and  the  wind  to  the  cliff,  and  the  wave  to 
the  rock,  and  the  gulls  lamenting.  And  you  know  that 
it  was  all  like  this  a  thousand  years  and  more  ago, 
when  Machdum  set  his  sails  to  the  wind  and  headed 
his  ship  for  the  island. 

Moriarty,  leaving  the  donkey  to  nibble  at  the  scant 
grass  on  the  cliff  top,  took  his  seat  on  the  ground  and 
began  to  cut  a  split  out  of  the  blackthorn  stick,  while 
Miss  French,  with  the  reins  in  her  hands,  looked  about 
her  and  over  the  sea. 

She  could  see  a  white  ring  round  the  base  of  each  of 
the  Seven  Sisters  rocks ;  it  was  a  ring  of  foam,  for, 
placid  though  the  sea  looked  from  these  heights,  a 
dangerous  swell  was  running.  Now  and  then,  like 
a  puff  of  smoke,  a  ring  of  seagulls  would  burst  out 
from  the  rocks,  contract,  dissolve,  and  vanish.  Now 
and  then  a  great  cormorant  would  pass  the  cliff  edge, 
sailing  along  without  a  movement  of  the  wings,  and 
sinking  from  sight  with  a  cry. 

The  sea  breeze  blew,  bringing  with  it  the  crowning 
delight  of  the  cliff-top — the  smell  of  the  sea ;  the  smell 
of  a  thousand  leagues  of  waves,  the  smell  of  seaweed 
from  the  shore,  the  smell  that  men  knew  and  loved  a 


10  GARRYOWEN 

thousand  years  ago,  the  smell  which  is  freedom  dis- 
tilled into  perfume  and  the  remembrance  of  which 
makes  us  turn  each  year  from  the  land  and  seek  the 
sea. 

"  Moriarty,"  said  the  child,  "  where  are  those  ships 
going  to?  " 

"Which  ships?"  asked  Moriarty. 

"  Those  ships  with  the  brown  sails  to  them." 

"  Limerick,"  replied  Moriarty,  without  raising  an 
eye  from  the  job  he  was  on,  or  knowing  in  the  least 
which  way  the  ships  were  going,  or  whether  Limerick 
was  by  the  sea  or  inland.  Moriarty  had  a  theory  that 
one  answer  was  as  good  as  another  for  a  child  as  long 
as  you  satisfied  it,  and  the  easiest  answer  was  the  best, 
because  it  gave  you  the  least  trouble.  Moriarty  was 
not  an  educationist;  indeed,  his  own  education  was  of 
the  slightest. 

"  Why  are  they  going  to  Limerick?  "  demanded  Miss 
French. 

"Why  are  they  goin'  to  where?"  asked  Moriarty, 
speaking  like  a  man  in  a  reverie  and  whittling  away 
with  his  knife  at  the  stick. 

"Limerick." 

"  Sure,  what  else  would  they  be  goin'  for  but  to 
buy  cods'  heads  ?  " 

"Why?"  asked  Miss  French,  who  felt  this  answer 
to  be  both  bizarre  and  unsatisfactory. 

"  I  dunno.    I've  never  axed  them." 

This  brought  the  subject  to  a  cul-de-sac  and  brick 
wall. 

And  if  you  will  examine  Moriarty's  answers  you  will 


GARRYOWEN  11 

find  that  he  had  constructed  an  impregnable  position, 
a  glacis  across  which  no  child  would  get  a  "  why?  " 

Miss  French  ruminated  on  this  for  a  moment,  while 
Moriarty,  having  finished  his  operations  on  the  stick, 
tapped  the  dottle  out  of  his  pipe,  refilled  it,  and  lit  it. 

Then,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  lay  watching  the  ships 
going  to  Limerick,  and  thinking  about  stable  matters 
and  Garryowen,  the  latest  addition  to  Mr.  French's 
stable,  in  particular. 

Moriarty  had  spotted  Garryowen.  It  was  by  his 
advice  that  Mr.  French  had  bought  the  colt,  and  it 
was  in  his  hands  that  the  colt  was  turning  into  one 
of  the  fleetest  that  ever  put  hoof  to  turf.  Miss  French 
watched  her  companion,  and  they  sat  like  this  for  a 
long,  long  time,  while  the  wind  blew,  and  the  sea 
boomed,  and  the  gulls  passed  overhead,  honey-coloured 
where  the  sunlight  pierced  the  snow  of  their  wings. 

"Moriarty,"1  said  the  child  at  last,  "how  would 
you  like  to  have  a  governess  ?  " 

This  question  brought  Moriarty  back  from  his  re- 
verie, and  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Come  along,"  said  he,  taking  the  donkey's  reins, 
"  it's  moidhered  you'll  be  gettin'  with  the  sun  on  your 
head  and  you  without  a  hat." 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  governess,"  said  the  child ; 
"  she's  coming  this  day  week,  and  she's  forty  years 
old.  What'll  she  be  like,  do  you  think,  Moriarty?" 

"  Faith ! "  said  the  evader  of  questions,  "  it's  I  that 
am  thinkin'  she  won't  be  like  a  rosebud." 

Miss  French  drew  a  letter  from  the  pocket  of  her 
skirt  as  Moriarty  led  the  donkey  towards  the  path.  It 


18  GARRYOWEN 

was  a  letter  written  purposely  in  a  large,  round  hand 
that  a  child  could  easily  read;  each  character  was 
neatly  printed,  and  though  the  contents  were  simple 
enough,  the  thing  spoke  volumes  about  the  good  heart 
of  the  sender. 

Mr.  French  was  in  Dublin,  but  every  day  during 
his  absence  he  wrote  his  little  daughter  a  letter  like 
this — a  pleasant  trait  in  a  man  living  in  a  world  the 
keynote  of  which  is  forgetfulness  of  the  absent.  The 
child  read  out  the  letter  as  Moriarty  guided  the  donkey 
down  the  steep  hill  path. 

It  was  a  funny  letter.  It  began  as  though  Mr. 
French  were  writing  to  a  child;  it  went  on  as  though 
he  were  writing  to  an  adult,  and  it  finished  as  though 
the  age  of  his  correspondent  had  just  occurred  to 
him.  It  told  of  what  he  was  doing  in  town — of  a  visit 
to  Mr.  Legge,  the  family  solicitor,  and  of  bother  about 
money  matters. 

"  However,"  said  Mr.  French  in  one  passage, 
"  Garryowen  will  put  that  all  right." 

As  Miss  French  read  this  aloud  Moriarty  emphasised 
his  opinion  on  the  matter  by  striking  a  drum  note  on 
the  donkey's  ribs  with  the  butt  of  his  stick. 

"  I've  got  a  governess  for  you  at  last,"  said  Mr. 
French.  "  She's  forty,  and  wears  spectacles.  I  haven't 
seen  her,  but  I  gather  so  from  her  letter.  She's  com- 
ing from  England  this  day  week.  I'll  be  back  to-mor- 
row by  the  5.30  train." 

"That's  to-day,"  said  Miss  French. 

"I  know,"  replied  Moriarty.  "Mrs.  Driscoll  had 
a  postcard.  I'm  to  meet  the  train  wid  the  car.  Now, 
Miss  Effie,  here's  your  cloak,  and  on  you  put  it." 


GARRYOWEN  13 

"  Bother,"  said  Miss  French  as  Moriarty  picked  up 
the  discarded  cloak  from  the  ground. 

She  put  it  on,  and  they  resumed  their  way,  till  they 
reached  the  boa. 

This,  too,  was  grumblingly  put  on,  and  they  re- 
sumed their  way  till  they  came  on  the  great  hat  lying 
on  the  ground. 

Moriarty  placed  the  elastic  of  this  under  the  child's 
chin  and  gave  the  crown  a  slight  twitch  to  put  it 
straight. 

With  the  putting  on  of  the  hat  Miss  French's  light- 
hearted  look  and  gaiety,  which  had  dwindled  on  the 
assumption  of  the  cloak  and  boa,  completely  vanished, 
like  a  candle-flame  under  an  extinguisher. 

Mrs.  Driscoll  met  them  at  the  door. 

"  That's  right,  Moriarty,"  said  she.  "  You  haven't 
let  the  hat  off  her,  have  you?  " 

*'  She  tuck  it  off,"  said  Moriarty,  "  and  I  put  it  on 
her  head  again  wid  me  own  hands.  What's  that  you 
say?  Have  I  kep'  her  out  of  the  wind*?  Which  wind 
d'y  mane,  or  what  are  you  talkin'  about?  Here  you 
are,  take  her  into  the  house,  for  I  have  me  stables  to 
look  afther,  and  it's  close  on  wan." 

Mrs.  Driscoll  disappeared  into  the  house,  bearing 
in  her  arms  the  last  of  the  Frenches.  Poor  child!  If 
anyone  ever  stood  a  chance  of  being  killed  by  kindness, 
it  was  she. 

Muffled  to  death! 

Many  an  invalid  has  gone  through  that  martyrdom 
and  sure  process  of  extinction. 


CHAPTER    III 

DRUMGOOL  was  a  bachelor's,  or,  rather,  a  widower's, 
household.  The  dining-room,  where  dead-and-gone 
Frenches  looked  at  one  another  from  dusty  canvases, 
was  rarely  used;  the  drawing-room  never.  Guns  and 
fishing-rods  found  their  way  into  the  sitting-room, 
which  had  once  been  the  library,  and  still  held  books 
enough  to  lend  a  perfume  of  mildew  and  leather  to  the 
place — a  perfume  that  mixed  not  unpleasantly  with  the 
smell  of  cigar-smoke  and  the  scent  of  the  sea. 

The  house  hummed  with  the  sound  of  the  sea.  Fling 
a  window  open,  and  the  roar  of  it  came  in,  and  the 
smell  of  it  better  than  the  smell  of  roses. 

Room  after  room  of  Drumgool,  had  you  knocked  at 
the  doors  of  them,  would  have  answered  you  only  with 
echoes. 

"Here  there  was  laughter  of  old; 
There  was  weeping " 

Laughter  there  was  none  now,  nor  weeping — just 
silence,  dust ;  old  furniture,  so  used  by  the  sea  air  that 
a  broker's  man  would  scarcely  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  take  possession  of  it. 

In  the  sitting-room,  on  the  morning  of  the  day  on 
which  the  governess  was  expected  to  arrive,  Mr.  French 
was  talking  to  his  cousin,  Mr.  Giveen,  who,  with  his 
hat  by  his  side,  was  seated  on  the  sofa  glancing  over 
a  newspaper. 

14 


GARRYOWEN  15 

The  breakfast  things  were  still  on  the  table,  the  win- 
dow was  open  to  let  in  the  glorious  autumn  day,  and 
a  blue  haze  of  cigar-smoke  hung  in  the  air,  created  by 
the  cigar  of  Mr.  French. 

Mr.  Giveen  did  not  smoke;  his  head  would  not  stand 
it.  Neither  did  he  drink,  and  for  the  same  reason. 

He  looked  quite  a  young  man  when  he  had  his  hat 
on,  but  he  was  not;  his  head  was  absolutely  bald. 

He  was  dressed  in  well-worn  grey  tweed,  and  his  col- 
lar was  of  the  Gladstone  type.  Cruikshank's  picture 
of  Mr.  Dick  in  "  David  Copperfield  "  might  have  been 
inspired  by  Mr.  Giveen. 

This  gentleman,  who  carried  about  with  him  a  faint 
atmosphere  of  madness,  was  not  in  the  least  mad  in  a 
great  many  ways ;  in  some  other  ways  he  was — well, 
peculiar. 

He  inhabited  a  bungalow  half  way  between  Drum- 
gool  House  and  Drumboyne,  and  he  had  a  small  in- 
come, the  exact  extent  of  which  he  kept  hidden.  He 
had  no  profession,  occupation,  or  trade,  no  family — 
French  was  his  nearest  relation,  and  continually  wish- 
ing himself  further  away — no  troubles,  no  cares.  He 
neither  read,  smoked,  drank,  played  billiards,  cards,  nor 
games  of  any  description ;  all  these  methods  of  amuse- 
ment were  too  much  for  Mr.  Giveen's  head.  He  had, 
however,  two  pastimes  that  kept  his  own  and  his  neigh- 
bours' hands  full.  Collecting  news  and  distributing 
it  was  one  of  these  pastimes;  making  love  was  the 
other. 

Small  as  was  Drumboyne,  and  few  as  were  the  gentry 
distributed  around,  Mr.  Giveen's  gossiping  propensities 


16  GARRYOWEN 

had  already  created  much  mischief,  and  there  was  not 
a  girl  or  unmarried  woman  within  a  range  of  fifteen 
miles  that  Mr.  Giveen  had  not  either  made  eyes  at  or 
love  to. 

The  strange  thing  is  that  he  could  have  been  married 
several  times.  There  were  girls  in  Drumboyne  who 
would  have  swallowed  Mr.  Giveen  for  the  sake  of  the 
bungalow  and  the  small  income,  which  popular  report 
made  big,  but  he  was  not  a  marrying  man.  On  the 
other  hand  he  was  a  most  moral  man.  He  made  love 
just  for  the  sake  of  making  love.  It  is  an  Irish  habit. 
The  question  of  bringing  a  governess  to  Drumgool 
House  had  been  held  in  abeyance  for  some  time  on  ac- 
count of  Mr.  Giveen. 

Mr.  French  knew  quite  well  that  anything  with  pet- 
ticoats on  it  and  in  the  way  of  a  lady  would  cause  his 
cousin  to  infest  the  house.  However,  Effie's  education 
had  to  be  considered. 

"  Sure,"  said  Mr.  French  to  himself,  "  it'll  be  all 
right  if  I  get  one  old  enough." 

It  was  only  this  morning  that  he  broke  the 
news. 

"Dick,"  said  Mr.  French.  "There's  a  governess 
coming  for  Effie." 

"  A  what  did  you  say?  "  asked  Mr.  Giveen,  looking 
up  from  the  newspaper,  the  advertisement  page  of 
which  he  had  been  reading  upside  down.  One  of  his 
not  altogether  sane  habits  was  to  sit  and  stare  at  a 
paper  and  pretend  to  be  reading  it,  so  that  his  thoughts 
might  wander  unperceived.  "  A  what  did  you  say?  " 

"  A  governess  is  coming  for  Effie." 


GARRYOWEN  17 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  and  relapsed  into  the  study 
of  the  newspaper. 

Now,  this  appearance  of  indifference  was  a  very 
ominous  sign.  The  news  that  a  new  servant  was  com- 
ing would  have  caused  this  inveterate  tattler  to  break 
into  a  volley  of  questions,  questions  of  the  most 
minute  and  intimate  description  as  to  the  name,  age, 
colour,  looks,  height,  and  native  place  of  the  new- 
comer ;  yet  this  important  information  left  him  dumb, 
but  it  was  a  speechlessness  that  only  affected  the  tongue. 
If  you  had  watched  him  closely  you  would  have  no- 
ticed that  his  eyes  were  travelling  rapidly  up  and  down 
the  columns  of  the  paper,  that  his  hand  was  tremulous. 

Mr.  French,  who  was  not  an  observer,  went  on  to 
talk  of  other  matters,  when  suddenly  Mr.  Giveen 
dropped  his  paper. 

"What's  she  like?"  said  he. 

"  What's  who  like?  "  replied  Mr.  French,  who  at  the 
moment  was  discussing  turnips. 

"The  governess." 

"I  haven't  seen  her  yet,"  said  Mr.  French,  "but 
her  name  is  Grimshaw,  and  she's  over  forty." 

At  this  news  Mr.  Giveen  clapped  his  hat  on  his  head 
and  made  for  the  open  French  window.  "  I'll  see  you 
to-morrow,"  he  cried  back  as  he  disappeared  amidst 
the  rose  trees. 

Mr.  French  chuckled. 

Then  through  the  same  window  he  passed  into  the 
garden,  and  thence  to  the  stable-yard,  where  he  found 
Moriarty,  who  was  standing  at  the  harness-room  door 
engaged  in  cleaning  a  bit. 


18  GARRYOWEN 

"  Moriarty,"  said  Mr.  French,  "  you'll  take  the  car 
to  the  station  to  meet  the  half-past  five  train." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Moriarty.     "  Any  luggage?  " 

"  Oh !  I  shouldn't  think  much,"  replied  Mr.  French. 
"  You're  to  meet  the  lady  that's  coming  as  governess 
for  Miss  Effie.  You're  sure  to  recognise  her — she's 
elderly.  If  she  has  more  than  one  trunk  you  can  tell 
Doyle  to  bring  it  on  in  the  morning." 

As  he  went  back  to  the  house  he  took  the  letter  he 
had  received  a  week  before  from  Miss  Grimshaw  from 
his  pocket  and  reread  it. 

"  The  question  of  salary,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw, 
"  does  not  weigh  particularly  with  me,  as  I  am  pos- 
sessed of  a  small  income  of  my  own,  to  which  I  can, 
if  I  choose,  add  considerably  with  my  pen.  I  am  very 
much  interested  in  the  study  of  Ireland  and  the  Irish, 
and  would  like  to  become  more  intimate  at  first-hand 
with  your  charming  country,  so  I  think  we  will  waive 
the  question  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.  Any  in- 
struction I  can  give  your  little  daughter  will  be  amply 
repaid  by  your  hospitality." 

A  nice  letter  written  in  a  nice  firm,  sensible  woman's 
hand. 

Miss  Grimshaw  had  referred  Mr.  French  to  several 
highly  respectable  people,  but  Mr.  French,  with  that 
splendid  indifference  to  detail  which  was  part  of  his 
nature,  had  not  troubled  to  take  Miss  Grimshaw's  char- 
acter up. 

"  Oh,  bother  her  character,"  said  he.  "  No  woman 
has  any  character  worth  troubling  about  over  forty," 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  PORTER,  porter!  does  this  train  stop  at  Tullagh?  " 

"  You're  in  the  wrong  thrain,  mum ;  this  thrain  stops 
nowhere ;  this  is  the  ixpress  all  the  way  to  Cloyne.  Out 
you  get,  for  we  want  to  be  goin*  on.  Right,  Larry !  " 

Miss  Grrimshaw,  dusty  and  tired,  seated  in  the  corner 
of  a  first-class  carriage,  heard  the  foregoing  dialogue, 
and  smiled. 

It  came  to  her  with  a  puff  of  gorse-scented  air 
through  the  open  window  of  the  railway  carriage. 

"  Now,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw  to  herself,  "  I  really  be- 
lieve I  am  in  Ireland." 

Up  to  this,  at  Kingstown,  in  her  passage  through 
Dublin,  and  during  the  long,  dusty,  dull  journey  that 
followed,  she  had  come  across  nothing  especially  na- 
tional. It  is  not  in  the  grooves  of  travel  that  you 
come  across  the  spirit  of  Ireland. 

Davy  Stevens,  selling  his  newspapers  on  the  Carlisle 
pier  at  Kingstown,  had  struck  her  fancy,  but  nothing 
followed  him  up.  The  jarvey  who  drove  her  from 
station  to  station  in  Dublin  was  surly  and  so  speech- 
less that  he  might  have  been  English.  The  streets 
were  like  English  streets,  the  people  like  English  people, 
the  rain  like  English  rain,  only  worse. 

But  it  was  not  raining  here.  Here  in  the  west, 
the  train  seemed  drawing  out  of  civilisation,  into  a  new 
world— vast  hills  and  purple  moors,  great  spaces  of 
19 


20  GARRYOWEN 

golden  afternoon,  unspoiled  by  city  or  town,  far  moun- 
tain tops  breaking  to  view  and  veiled  in  the  loveli- 
ness of  distance. 

"And  people  go  to  Switzerland  with  this  at  their 
elbow,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  leaning  her  chin  upon 
her  palm  and  gazing  upon  the  view. 

She  was  alone  in  the  carriage,  and  so  could  place 
her  feet  on  the  opposite  cushions.  Very  pretty  little 
feet  they  were,  too. 

V.  Grimshaw  was  dressed  with  plainness  and  dis- 
tinction in  a  Norfolk  jacket  and  skirt  of  Harris  tweed, 
a  brown  Homburg  hat,  and  youth.  She  did  not  look 
more  than  eighteen,  though  she  was,  in  fact,  twenty- 
two.  Her  face,  lit  by  the  warm  afternoon  light,  was 
both  practical  and  pretty;  her  hair  was  dark  and 
seemed  abundant.  Beside  her  on  the  cushions  of  the 
carriage  lay  several  newspapers — the  Athenceum 
among  others — and  a  book,  "  Tartarin  of  Tarascon," 
in  the  original  French. 

This  was  the  personage  who  had  replied  to  Mr. 
French's  advertisement.  There  was  no  deception.  She 
had  stated  her  age  plainly  as  twenty-two  in  her  first 
letter  to  him ;  the  mistake  was  on  his  part.  In  reading 
the  hundred-and-fifty  or  so  replies  to  his  advertisement 
he  had  got  mixed  somehow,  and  had  got  some  other 
lady's  age  in  his  head  attached  to  the  name  of 
Grimshaw. 

As  for  the  spectacles,  he  had  drawn  in  his  imagina- 
tion the  portrait  of  a  governess  of  forty-four  named 
Grimshaw,  and  the  portrait  wore  spectacles. 

Miss    Grimshaw    didn't.     Those    clear,    grey    eyes 


GARRYOWEN  31 

would  not  require  the  aid  of  glasses  for  many  a  year 
to  come. 

American  by  birth,  born  in  the  State  of  Massachu- 
setts, twenty-two  years  ago,  Miss  Grimshaw's  people 
had  "  gone  bust "  in  the  railway  collapse  that  fol- 
lowed the  shooting  of  Garfield.  Miss  Grimshaw's 
father,  a  speculator  by  nature  and  profession,  had 
been  one  of  the  chief  "  bulls  "  in  Wall  Street. 

He  had  piled  together  a  colossal  fortune  during  the 
steady  inflation  of  railway  stock  that  preceded  the 
death  of  Garfield.  The  pistol  of  Guiteau  was  the  signal 
for  the  bottom  to  fall  out  of  everything,  and  on  that 
terrible  Saturday  afternoon  when  Wabash  stock  fell 
sixteen  points  without  recovery,  Curtis  Grimshaw  shot 
himself*  in  his  office,  and  V.  Grimshaw,  a  tiny  tot,  was 
left  in  the  world  without  father  or  mother,  sister  or 
brother,  or  any  relations  save  an  uncle  in  the  dry-goods 
trade. 

He  had  taken  care  of  her  and  educated  her  at  the 
best  school  he  could  find.  Four  years  ago*  he  had  died, 
and  V.  Grimshaw  at  eighteen  found  herself  again  on 
the  world,  this  time  most  forlorn.  The  happy  con- 
dition remained,  however,  that  Simon  Gretry,  the  dry- 
goods  uncle,  had  settled  a  thousand  (dollars)  a  year 
on  his  niece,  this  small  income  being  derived  from  real 
estate  in  New  York  city. 

Miss  Grimshaw  emigrated  to  Europe,  not  to  find  a 
husband,  but  to  study  art  in  Paris.  Six  months'  study 
told  her,  however,  that  art  was  not  her  walk  in  life, 
and  being  eminently  practical,  she  cast  aside  her 
palette  and  took  up  with  writing  and  literary  work 


22  GARRYOWEN 

generally,  working  for  Hardmuth's  Press  Syndicate 
and  tiring  of  the  work  in  a  year. 

Just  after  she  had  dropped  Hardmuth's,  Miss  Grim- 
shaw  came  upon  Mr.  French's  advertisement  in  a  lady's 
paper.  Its  ingenuousness  entirely  fascinated  her. 

"He's  not  literary,  anyhow,"  she  said.  "It's  the 
clearest  bit  of  writing  I've  come  across  for  many  a 
day.  Might  try  it.  I've  long  been  wanting  to  go  to 
Ireland,  and  if  I  don't  like  it — why,  I'm  not  tied  to 
them." 

Mr.  French's  reply  to  her  application  decided  her, 
and  so  she  came. 

The  train  was  now  passing  through  a  glen  where  the 
bracken  leaped  six  feet  high — a  glen  dim  and  dream- 
like, a  vast  glen,  echo-haunted,  and  peopled  with  water- 
falls, pines,  and  ferns  that  grow  nowhere  else  as  they 
grow  here. 

It  is  the  glen  of  a  thousand  echoes.  Call  here,  and 
Echo  replies,  and  replies,  and  replies;  and  you  hear 
your  commonplace  voice — the  voice  that  you  ordered 
a  beefsteak  with  yesterday — chasing  itself  past  fern 
and  pine  and  fading  away  in  Fairyland. 

A  tunnel  took  the  train,  and  then  out  of  the  roaring 
darkness  it  swept  into  sunlight  again,  and  great  plains 
of  bracken  and  heather. 

Miss  Grimshaw  undid  the  strap  of  her  rug  and 
packed  her  newspapers  and  book  inside.  The  train 
was  slowing.  By  the  time  she  had  got  all  her  things 
together  it  was  drawing  up  at  a  long  platform,  whose 
notice-board  read: — ? 


GARRYOWEN 


CLOYNE 

The  girl  opened  the  door  of  the  carriage  and  stepped 
on  to  the  platform  and  into  a  world  of  sunlight,  silence, 
and  breeze. 

The  air  was  like  wine. 

There  were  few  people  on  the  platform ;  a  woman  in 
a  red  cloak,  a  priest  who  had  stepped  out  of  the  train, 
a  couple  of  farmers,  and  several  porters  busily  en- 
gaged in  taking  some  baskets  of  live  fowl  (to  judge  by 
the  sound)  out  of  the  guard's  van,  and  a  seedy- 
looking  individual  in  a  tall  hat  and  frock-coat,  who 
looked  strangely  out  of  keeping  with  his  surround- 
ings. 

"  Is  there  not  a  porter  to  take  luggage  out  of  the 
train?  "  asked  Miss  Grimshaw  of  a  long,  squint-eyed, 
foxy-looking  man,  half-groom,  half-gamekeeper,  who 
was  walking  along  the  train  length  peeping  into  each 
carriage  as  if  in  search  of  something.  , 

"  Porthers,  miss,"  replied  the  foxy  person.  "  Thim 
things  that's  gettin'  the  chickens  out  of  the  van  calls 
themselves  porthers,  I  b'lave." 

Without  another  word  he  stepped  into  the  carriage 
and  whipped  the  travelling-bag,  the  bundle  of  rugs,  and 
other  small  articles  on  to  the  platform. 

"  You  didn't  happen  to  see  an  ouldish  lady  in  the 
thrain  anywhere  between  here  and  Dublin,  miss?  "  said 
Moriarty — for  Moriarty  it  was — as  he  deposited  the 
last  of  the  bundles. 


24  GARRYOWEN 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  I  didn't." 

"  Begorra,  then,"  said  Moriarty,  "  she's  either 
missed  the  train  or  tumbled  out  of  it.  Billy ! " — to  a 
porter  who  was  coming  leisurely  up — "  when  you've 
done  thinkin*  over  that  prize  you  tuk  in  the  beauty 
show,  maybe  you'll  attind  to  the  company's  business 
and  lift  the  young  lady's  luggage." 

"  I  expected  a  trap  to  meet  me  from  Mr.  French,  of 
Drumgool,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw  as  Billy  took  the  lug- 
gage. 

"  Mr.  Frinch,  did  you  say,  miss  ?  "  said  Moriarty. 

"Yes.  Mr.  French,  of  Drumgool  House;  he  ex- 
pected me  by  this  train." 

Moriarty  broke  into  a  grin  that  broadened  and 
spread  over  his  ugly  face  like  the  ripple  on  a  pond. 

"  Faith,  thin,"  said  he,  "  it's  Mr.  Frinch  will  have  a 
most  agrayable  surprise.  '  Moriarty,'  says  he  to  me, 

*  take  the  car  and  meet  the  lady  that's  comin'  by  the 
ha'f-pas'  five  thrain.     You  can't  mistake  her,'  he  says, 

*  for  she's  an  ouldish  lady  in  spicticles.'  " 

Miss  Grimshaw  laughed.  "  Well,"  she  said,  "  it  was 
Mr.  French's  mistake.  Let  us  find  the  car.  I  suppose 
you  are  going  to  drive  me?  " 

"  It's  fifteen  miles  to  Drumgool,  miss,"  said  Moriarty. 
"  Mr.  Frinch  tould  me  to  say  you  were  to  be  sure  and 
have  some  tay  at  the  hotel  here  afther  your  journey; 
it's  only  across  the  road." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

She  followed  Moriarty  and  the  porter  to  the  station 
gate.  An  outside  car,  varnished,  silver-plated  as  to 
fittings,  and  very  up  to  date  stood  near  the  wicket.  A 


GARRYOWEN  25 

big  roan  mare  with  a  temper  was  in  the  shafts,  and  a 
barefooted  gossoon  was  holding  on  to  the  bridle. 

The  station  inn  across  the  road  flung  its  creaking 
sign  to  the  wind  from  the  moors,  seeming  to  beckon, 
and  Miss  Grimshaw  came. 

The  front  door  was  open,  and  a  dirty  child  was  play- 
ing in  the  passage.  Miss  Grimshaw  passed  the  child, 
knocked  at  a  door  on  the  left  of  the  passage,  and,  re- 
ceiving no  answer,  opened  it,  to  find  a  bar-room,  smell- 
ing vilely  of  bad  tobacco  and  spirits.  She  closed  the 
door  and  opened  one  on  the  right  of  the  passage,  to 
find  a  stuffy  sitting  room  with  a  stuffed  dog  under  a 
glass  case  for  its  presiding  genius. 

Two  clocks  stood  on  the  mantelpiece,  one  pointing 
to  three,  the  other  to  twelve,  neither  of  them  going; 
a  sofa  covered  with  American  cloth,  chairs  to  match,  a 
picture  of  the  Day  of*  Judgment,  some  dusty  sea- 
shells,  and  a  drugget  carpet  completed  the  furniture 
of  the  place.  Miss  Grimshaw  was  looking  around  her 
for  a  bell  when  the  following  dialogue  between  Mori- 
arty  and  some  female  unknown  struck  her  ears. 

"  Mrs.  Sheelan,"  came  Moriarty's  voice,  evidently 
from  the  backyard. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  came  the  reply,  evidently 
from  an  upper  room. 

"What  are  you  doin'?" 

"  I'm  clanin'  meself ." 

"  Well,  hurry  up  clanin'  yourself  and  put  the  kittle 
on  the  fire,  for  there's  a  young  lady  wants  some  tay." 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  God !    Moriarty !  " 

"Well?" 


26  GARRYOWEN 

"  Shout  for  Biddy ;  she's  beyant  there  in  the  cow- 
house. Tell  her  the  kittle's  on,  and  to  stir  the  fire  and 
make  the  tay.  I'll  be  wid  you  in  wan  minit." 

Miss  Grimshaw  took  her  seat  and  waited,  listening  to 
the  stumping  noise  upstairs  that  told  of  speed,  and 
wondering  what  Mrs.  Sheelan  would  be  like  when  she 
was  cleaned. 

Almost  immediately  Biddy,  fresh  from  the  cow- 
house, a  girl  with  apple-red  cheeks,  entered  the  room, 
whisked  the  stuffed  dog  on  to  a  side  table,  dumped 
down  a  dirty  table-cloth  which  she  had  brought  in 
rolled  up  under  her  arm,  dragged  out  the  drawer  of  a 
cupboard,  and  from  the  drawer  knives,  forks,  spoons, 
a  salt-cellar,  ahd  a  pepper  caster  of  pewter. 

"  You  needn't  lay  all  those  things  for  me,"  said  the 
traveller.  "  I  only  want  tea." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  thrubble,  miss,"  replied  Biddy  with  an 
expansive  smile.  She  finished  laying  the  cloth,  and 
then  hung  at  the  door. 

"  Well?  "  asked  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  I  thought,  miss,"  said  Biddy  in  a  difficult  voice, 
"  you  might  be  wantin'  to — change  your  hat  afther  the 
journey." 

As  Miss  Grimshaw  was  sitting  at  her  tea  some  ten 
minutes  later  a  knock  came  to  the  door.  It  was  Mori- 
arty  who  entered  on  the  knock  and  stood  hat  in 
hand. 

"  I'm  sendin'  your  thrunk  by  Doyle,  the  carrier, 
miss,"  said  Moriarty,  "  and  I'm  takin'  your  small 
thraps  on  the  car." 

«  Thank  you." 


GARRYOWEN  27 

"  If  you  plaze,  miss,"  said  Moriarty,  "  did  you  see  a 
man  step  out  of  the  thrain  wid  a  long  black  coat  on 
him  and  a  face  like  an  undertaker's?  " 

"  I  did,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  if  you  mean  a  man 
in  a  tall  hat." 

"  That's  him,"  said  Moriarty.  "  Bad  luck  to  him ! 
I  knew  what  he  was  afther  when  I  set  me  eyes  on  him, 
and  when  I  was  puttin'  your  bag  on  the  car  he  ups  and 
axes  me  if  I  knew  of  a  Mr.  Frinch  living  here  away. 
'  Which  Mr.  Frinch?  '  says  I.  «  Mr.  Michael  Frinch,' 
says  he.  *  Do  I  know  where  he  lives  ?  '  says  I.  '  Sure, 
what  do  you  take  me  for — me,  that's  Mr.  Frinch's  own 
man  ?  '  '  How  far  is  it  away  ?  '  says  he.  '  How  far  is 
what?'  says  I.  'Mr.  Frinch's  house,'  says  he.  'A 
matter  of  fifteen  miles,'  says  I.  '  Bad  luck  to  it ! '  says 
he,  *  I'll  have  to  walk  it.'  *  Up  you  get  on  the  car,' 
says  I,  '  and  sure  I'll  drive  you,'  and  up  he  gets,  and 
there  he's  sitting  now,  waitin'  to  be  druv.  Bad  cess  to 
him!" 

"  But  who  is  he?  "  asked  the  girl,  not  qui£e  compre- 
hending the  gist  of  this  flood  of  information. 

Moriarty  lowered  his  voice  half  a  tone.  "  He's  a 
bailiff,  miss,  come  down  to  arrist  the  horses." 

"  Arrest  the  horses !  " 

"  It's  this  way,  miss.  Mr.  Frinch  had  some  dalin's 
wid  a  Jew  money-lender  in  Dublin  be  the  name  of  Har- 
rison, and  only  this  mornin'  he  said  to  me,  '  Moriarty,' 
he  says,  '  keep  your  eye  out  at  the  station,  for  it's  I 
that  am  afraid  this  black  baste  of  a  Harrison  would 
play  us  some  trick,  for  them  money-lenders  has  ears 
that  would  reach  from  here  to  Clontarf,'  says  he,  '  and 


28  GARRYOWEN 

it's  quite  on  the  cards  he's  heard  from  his  agent  I've 
sold  Nip  and  Tuck,  and  if  he  has,'  he  says,  '  it's  sure 
as  a  gun  he'll  have  a  bailiff  in  before  I  can  get  them 
off  the  primises.'  " 

"  Are  Nip  and  Tuck  horses  ?  "  asked  Miss  Grimshaw, 
who  was  beginning  to  find  a  subtle  interest  in  Mori- 
arty's  conversation. 

"  Yes,  miss,  as  clane  a  pair  of  hunters  as  you'd  find 
in  Galway." 

"  Yes,  go  on." 

"  Well,  miss,  the  horses  were  due  to  be  taken  off  be 
the  nine  train  to-night.  Major  Sherbourne  has  bought 
thim  and  paid  for  thim,  and  now  if  this  chap  nails 
thim,  Mr.  Frinch  will  have  to  refund  the  money,  and, 
sure,  wouldn't  that  be  a  black  shame  ?  " 

"  And  this  man  has  come  down  to  arrest  the  horses  ?  " 
said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Yes,  miss,  and  that's  why  I've  come  to  ax  you  to 
let  him  drive  with  us.  For  I'm  going  to  play  him  a 
trick,  miss,  with  your  leave  and  licence,  and  that's  why 
I've  got  him  on  the  car." 

Miss  Grimshaw  laughed. 

"  I'm  no  friend  of  money-lenders,"  said  she. 

"  Sure,  I  could  tell  that  be  your  face,  miss." 

"  But  I  do  not  wish  to  see  the  man  injured  or  hurt." 

"  Hurt,  miss ! "  cried  Moriarty  in  a  virtuous  voice. 
"  Sure,  where  would  be  the  good  of  hurtin'  him,  unless 
he  was  kilt  outright?  You  lave  it  to  me,  miss,  and  I'll 
trate  him  as  tender  as  an  infant.  I've  tould  him  I'll 
drive  him  to  Mr.  Frinch's  house,  and  I  will;  but  he 
won't  get  Nip  nor  Tuck." 


GARRYOWEN  29 

"  Very  well,"  sai4  Miss  Grimshaw.  "  As  long  as  you 
don't  hurt  him  I  don't  care." 

Moriarty  withdrew,  and  Mrs.  Sheelan  appeared. 
The  cleaning  process  was  evident  in  the  polish  of  her 
face.  She  would  take  nothing  for  the  tea;  it  was  to 
go  down  to  Mr.  French's  account,  by  his  own  express 
orders. 

Having  bestowed  a  shilling  upon  Biddy,  the  travel- 
ler left  the  inn. 

The  seedy  personage  in  the  tall  hat  was  comfortably 
seated  on  the  outside  car  reading  a  day-before-yester- 
day's  Freeman's  JourncH,  and  a  new  gossoon  was 
holding  the  mare's  head  vice  the  old  gossoon,  who  had 
been  sent  on  horseback  hot  foot  to  Drumgool  to  give 
warning  to  Mr.  French. 

Miss  Grimshaw  got  on  the  side  of  the  car  opposite 
to  the  bailiff,  Moriarty  seized  the  reins,  the  gossoon 
sprang  away,  and  the  mare  rose  on  end. 

"  Fresh?  "  said  the  man  in  the  tall  hat. 

"  Faith,  she'll  be  stale  enough  when  I've  finished 
with  her,"  said  Moriarty.  "  Now  then,  now  then,  what 
are  yiz  afther?  Did  you  never  see  a  barra  of  luggage 
before?  Is  it  a  mothor-car  you're  takin'  yourself  to 
be,  or  what  ails  you,  at  all,  at  all?  Jay  up,  y* 
divil!" 

The  Dancing  Mistress — such  was  her  ominous  name 
— having  performed  the  cake  walk  to  her  own  satis- 
faction, turned  her  attention  to  a  mixture  of  the 
"  Washington  Post  "  and  the  two-step. 

"  Hit  her  with  the  whip,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Hit  her  with  the  whip !  "  replied  Moriarty.  "  Sure, 


30  GAKRYOWEN 

it's  kicked  to  matches  we'd  be  if  she  heard  me  draa  it 
from  the  socket.  Now  then,  now  then,  now  then ! " 

"That's  better,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  replied  Moriarty.  "  Once  she's  started 
nothin*  will  stay  her,  but  it's  the  startin'  is  the  divil." 

It  was  getting  towards  sunset  now,  and  in  the  east 
the  ghost  of  a  great  moon  was  rising  pale  as  a  cloud 
in  the  amethyst  sky. 

The  moors  swept  away  for  ever  on  either  side  of  the 
road,  moor  and  black  bog  desolate  and  silent  but  for 
the  wind  and  the  cry  of  the  plover.  Vast  mountains 
and  kingly  crags  thronged  the  east,  purple  in  the  level 
light  of  evening  and  peaceful  with  the  peace  of  a  mil- 
lion years  ;  away  to  the  west,  beyond  the  smoke  wreaths 
from  the  chimneys  of  Cloyne,  the  invisible  sea  was 
thundering  against  rock  and  cliff,  and  the  gulls  and 
terns,  the  guillemots  and  cormorants,  were  wheeling 
and  crying,  answering  with  their  voices  the  deep  boom 
of  the  sea  caves. 

Miss  Grimshaw  tried  to  imagine  what  life  would  be 
like  here,  fifteen  miles  from  a  railway  station.  Despite 
the  beauty  of  the  scenery  there  was  over  all,  or  rather 
in  it  all,  a  touch  of  darkness,  desolation,  and  poverty, 
a  sombre  note  rising  from  the  black  bog  patches,  the 
wretched  cabins  by  the  way,  the  stone  walls,  the  barren 
hills. 

But  the  freshness  of  the  air,  the  newness  of  it  all, 
made  up  to  the  girl  for  the  desolation.  It  was  different 
from  Fleet-street,  and  anything  that  is  different  from 
Fleet-street  must  have  a  certain  beauty  of  its  own. 

She  tried  to  imagine  what  trick  Moriarty  was  going 


GARRYOWEN  31 

to  play  on  the  gentleman  whose  tall  hat  was  so  extremely 
out  of  keeping  with  the  surroundings.  That  person, 
who  had  left  the  refreshments  of  the  inn  untried,  had 
not  come  unprovided;  he  produced  a  flask  from  his 
pocket  at  times,  fouling  the  air  with  the  smell  of  bad 
brandy,  but  not  a  word  did  he  speak  as  mile  after  mile 
slipped  by  and  the  sun  sank  and  vanished  and  the  moon 
glowed  out,  making  wonderland  of  the  world  around 
them. 

"  We're  more  than  ten  miles  on  our  road  now,  miss," 
said  Moriarty,  speaking  across  the  car  to  Miss  Grim- 
shaw.  "  Do  you  see  that  crucked  tree  beyant  on  the 
right  be  the  bog  patch?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  was  half-way  betune  that  and  thim  bushes  they 
shot  ould  Mr.  Moriarty  two  years  ago  come  next  June." 

"Shot  him?" 

"  Faith,  they  filled  him  so  full  of  bullets  that  the 
family  had  to  put  a  sintry  over  the  grave  for  fear  the 
bhoys  would  dig  him  up  to  shtrip  him  of  his  lead." 

"But  who  shot  him?" 

"  That's  what  the  jury  said,  miss,  when  they  brought 
it  in  *  Not  guilty '  against  Billy  the  Rafter,  Long 
Sheelan,  and  Mick  Mulcahy,  and  they  taken  with  the 
guns  smokin'  in  their  hands — the  blackgyards." 

"Good  heavens!  but  why  did  they  shoot  him?" 

"  Well,  he'd  got  himself  disliked,  miss.  For  more 
than  five  years  the  bhoys  had  been  warning  him;  sure 
they  sent  him  enough  pictures  of  coffins  and  skulls  to 
paper  a  wall  with,  and  he,  he'd  light  his  pipe  with  them. 
Little  he  cared  for  skulls  or  crossbones.  '  To  blazes 


33  GARRYOWEN 

with  them ! '  he'd  say.  '  All  right,'  says  the  bhoys, 
'  we'll  give  you  one  warnin'  more.'  '  Warn  away,'  says 
he,  and  they  warned.  Two  nights  after  they  laid  him 
out.  Do  you  see  away  bey  ant  those  trees,  miss,  thim 
towers — there,  you  see  them  poppin'  up  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"That's  Mr.  Frinch's  house." 

"Why,  it's  a  castle." 

"Yes,  miss,  I  b'lave  they  called  it  that  in  the  old 
days." 

At  a  gateway,  where  the  gate  was  flung  wide  open, 
Moriarty  drew  up. 

"  Now,"  said  he  to  the  person  in  the  tall  hat,  "  that's 
your  way  to  the  back  primises ;  down  with  you  and  in 
with  you,  and  sarve  your  writ,  for  it's  a  writ  you've 
come  to  sarve,  and  you  needn't  be  hidin'  it  in  your 
pocket,  for  it's  stickin'  out  of  your  face.  Round  with 
you  to  the  back  primises  and  give  me  compliments  to 
the  cook,  and  say  I'll  be  in  for  me  supper  when  I've 
left  this  lady  at  the  hall  dure." 

The  man  in  possession,  standing  now  in  the  road 
under  the  moonlight,  examined  the  car  and  the  horse 
that  had  brought  him. 

"  The  horse  and  car  are  Mr.  French's?  "  he  asked. 

"  They  are." 

"  Well,  when  you've  put  'em  in  the  stables,"  said  he, 
"  mind  and  don't  you  move  'em  out  again.  All  the 
movables  and  live  stock  are  to  be  left  in  statu  quo 
till  my  business  is  settled." 

"Right  y'  are,  sorr,"  replied  Moriarty  cheerfully, 
and  the  man  in  the  tall  hat  strode  away  through  the 


GARRYOWEN  33 

gate  and  vanished  in  the  direction  of  the  back  prem- 
ises. 

Miss  Grimshaw  felt  rather  disgusted  at  this  spirit- 
less fiasco.  She  was  quite  without  knowledge,  how- 
ever, of  Moriarty's  thorough  methods  and  far-reaching 
ways. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  play  him  a  trick," 
said  she. 

Moriarty,  who  had  got  down  for  a  moment  to  look 
at  the  mare's  off-fore  shoe,  sprang  on  to  the  car  again, 
turned  the  car,  touched  the  mare  with  the  whip,  and 
turned  to  the  astonished  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  This  isn't  Mr.  Frinch's  house  at  all,  miss." 

"  Why,  you  said  it  was." 

"  It's  his  house,  right  enough,"  said  Moriarty,  "  but 
it  hasn't  been  lived  in  for  a  hundred  and  tin  years ;  it's 
got  nuthin'  inside  it  but  thistles  and  bats.  He  axed  me 
for  Mr.  Frinch's  house;  well,  I've  driv  him  to  Mr. 
Frinch's  house,  him  and  his  ow-de-cologne  bottle,  but 
Mr.  Frinch  doesn't  live  here ;  he  lives  at  Drumgool." 

"  How  far  is  Drumgool  from  here?  " 

"It's  fifteen  miles  from  here  to  Cloyne,  miss,  and 
fifteen  from  Cloyne  to  Drumgool." 

"  Oh,  good  heavens ! "  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  thirty 
miles  from  here?  " 

"  There  or  thereabouts,  miss ;  we'll  have  to  get  a  new 
horse  at  Cloyne;  the  ould  mare  is  nearly  done,  and 
she'd  be  finished  entirely,  only  I  gave  her  a  two  hours' 
rest  before  I  take  you  up  at  the  station." 

"  Look !  "  groaned  the  girl. 

Far  away  behind  them  on  the  moonlit  road  a  figure 


34  GARRYOWEN 

had  appeared ;  it  was  running  and  shouting  and  waving 
its  arms. 

"That's  him,"  said  Moriarty.  "Faith,  he  looks 
as  if  he  had  seen  the  Banshee!  Look,  miss,  there's  his 
hat  tumbled  off." 

Running  was  evidently  not  the  bailiff's  forte,  but  he 
continued  the  exercise  manfully  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  or  so,  hat  in  hand,  before  giving  up.  When  he 
disappeared  from  view  Miss  Grimshaw  felt  what  we 
may  suppose  the  more  tender-hearted  of  Alexander 
Selkirk's  marooners  felt  when  Tristan  d'Acunha  sank 
from  sight  beyond  the  horizon. 

"  What  will  he  do  with  himself?  "  asked  she,  her  own 
grievance  forgotten  for  a  moment,  veiled  by  the  woes 
of  the  other  one. 

"  Faith,  I  don't  know,  miss,"  replied  Moriarty ;  "  he 
can  do  what  he  plazes,  for  what  I  care.  But  there's 
one  thing  he  won't  do,  and  that's  lay  finger  on  the 
horses ;  and  it's  sorry  I  am,  miss,  to  have  dhriven  you 
out  of  your  way.  But,  sure,  wouldn't  you  have  done 
it  yourself  if  I'd  been  you  and  you'd  been  me,  and  that 
black  baste  of  a  chap  puttin'  his  ugly  foot  in  the  mas- 
ter's business  ?" 

Miss  Grimshaw  laughed  in  a  rather  dreary  manner. 

"  But  it  isn't  his  fault." 

"Whose  fault,  miss?" 

"  That  man's ;  he  was  only  doing  his  duty." 

"  Faith,  and  that's  the  thruth,"  said  Moriarty,  "  and 
more's  the  pity  of  it,  as  Con  Meehan  said  when  he  was 
diggin'  in  his  pitata  garden  and  the  pleeceman  came 
to  arrist  him.  I'm  disremembrin'  what  it  was  he'd  done 


GARRYOWEN  35 

— chickens  I  think  it  was  he'd  stole — but  the  pleeceman 
says  to  him,  '  Come  off  wid  you  to  gaol,'  says  he;  '  it's 
sorry  I  am  to  have  to  take  you,'  says  he,  '  but  it's  me 
painful  duty.'  '  The  more's  the  pity  it  gives  you  such 
pain,'  says  Con, '  and  where  does  it  hurt  you  most,  may 
I  ax?  '  'In  me  feelin's,'  replies  him.  « Faith,  I'll  aise 
you,'  says  Con,  and  wid  that  he  knocks  him  sinsless 
with  the  flat  of  the  spade." 

"  That  was  one  way  of  relieving  him  of  his  painful 
duty." 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Moriarty,  and  they  drove  on  in 
silence  for  a  while,  Miss  Grimshaw  trying  to  imagine 
how  the  case  of  Con  Meehan  bore  extenuation  to  the 
case  of  the  bailiff  and  failing. 

A  long  hill  brought  them  to  a  walk,  and  Moriarty 
got  down  and  walked  beside  the  mare  to  "  aise  "  her. 

Half-way  up  the  hill  a  man  tramping  on  ahead 
halted,  turned,  and  stood  waiting  for  them  to  come  up. 
He  had  a  fishing-rod  under  his  arm,  and  Miss  Grim- 
shaw, wondering  what  new  surprise  was  in  store  for 
her,  found  it  in  the  voice  of  the  stranger,  which  was 
cultivated. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  am  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

"  Yes,  sorr,"  said  Moriarty,  halting  the  mare. 
"  You're  eleven  miles  and  a  bit  from  Cloyne,  if  you're 
going  that  way." 

"  Good  heavens !  "  said  the  stranger,  half  beneath  his 
breath ;  then  aloud :  "  Eleven  Irish  miles  ?  " 

"Yes,  sorr;  there  aren't  any  English  miles  in  these 
parts.  Were  you  going  to  Cloyne,  sorr?  " 

"  Yes ;  I'm  staying  at  the  inn  there,  and  I  came  out 


36  GARRYOWEN 

to-day  to  fish  a  stream  over  there  between  those  two 
hills ;  and  the  fool  of  a  fellow  I  took  with  me  got  lost — 
at  least,  he  went  off  and  never  came  back;  and  I'll 
break  his  neck  when  I  catch  him." 

"Was  it  Billy  Sheelan,  of  the  inn,  be  any  chance, 
sorr?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  that  was  his  name." 

"  Then  he  hasn't  got  lost,  sorr ;  he's  got  dhrunk. 
This  is  Mr.  Frinch's  car,  and  if  you'll  step  on  to  it  I'll 
drive  you  back  to  Cloyne,  if  the  young  lady  has  no 
objection." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

The  stranger  raised  his  cap.  He  was  a  good-look- 
ing youth,  well  dressed,  and  his  voice  had  a  lot  of  char- 
acter of  a  sort.  It  was  a  good-humoured,  easy-going, 
happy-go-lucky  voice,  and  it  matched  his  face,  or  as 
much  of  his  face  as  could  be  seen  in  the  moonlight. 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  dead 
beat,  been  on  my  legs  since  six,  had  good  luck,  too,  only 
I  lost  all  my  fish  tumbling  into  one  of  those  bog  holes. 
Just  escaped  with  my  life  and  my  rod."  He  mounted 
on  the  same  side  of  the  car  as  the  girl  and  continued  to 
address  his  remarks  to  her  as  Moriarty  drove  on.  "  I 
believe  I  ought  to  introduce  myself.  Dashwood  is  my 
name.  I  came  over  for  some  fishing,  and  the  more  I 
see  of  Ireland,  the  more  I  like  it.  Your  country " 

Miss  Grimshaw  laughed. 

"  It's  not  my  country — I'm  American." 

"Are  you?  "  said  Mr.  Dashwood  in  a  relieved  voice. 
"  How  jolly!  I  thought  you  might  be  Irish.  I  say," 
in  a  confidential  tone  of  voice,  "  isn't  it  a  beastly  hole?  " 


GARRYOWEN  37 

"Which?" 

"  Ireland." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  said  you  liked  it ! " 

"  I  thought  you  were  Irish.  I  do  like  it  in  a  way. 
The  mountains  and  the  whisky  aren't  bad,  and  the 
people  are  jolly  enough  if  they'd  only  wash  themselves, 
but  the  hotels— oh,  my ! " 

"  You're  staying  at  the  inn  near  the  railway  station 
at  Cloyne?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  Then  you  know  Biddy  and  the  stuffed  dog?  " 

"  Intimately — have  you  stayed  there?  " 

"  I  had  tea  there  this  afternoon." 

"You  live  near  here?" 

"  I  believe  I  am  going  to  live  for  a  while  near  here. 
I  only  arrived  this  afternoon."  , 

"  Only  this  afternoon.  Excuse  me  for  being 
so  inquisitive,  but  when  did  you  arrive  at — I 
mean " 

"  Cloyne." 

"  But  you're  driving  to  Cloyne  now." 

"  I  know.  I've  been  driving  all  over  the  country. 
We  had  to  leave  a  gentleman  at  a  castle,  and  now  we 
are  going  back  to  Cloyne.  Then  I  have  to  go  on  to 
a  place  called  Drumgool,  which  is  fifteen  miles  from 
Cloyne." 

"  To-night? "  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  looking  in  as- 
tonishment at  the  wanderer. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  touch  of  hope- 
lessness in  her  voice.  "  I  expect  they'll  have  to  tie  me 
on  to  the  car,  for  I  feel  like  dropping  off  now.  No, 


38  GARRYOWEN 

thanks ;  I  can  manage  to  hold  on  by  myself,  I  was 
speaking  metaphorically." 

Mr.  Dashwood  said  nothing  for  a  few  minutes. 
There  was  a  mystery  about  Miss  Grimshaw  that  he 
could  not  unravel,  and  which  she  could  not  explain. 

Then  he  said :  "  We've  both  been  travelling  round 
the  country,  seems  to  me,  and  we're  both  pretty  tired 
and  we've  met  like  this.  Funny,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Awfully,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  trying  to  stifle  a 
yawn. 

"  Do  I  bore  you  talking?  " 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  That's  all  right.  I  know  you  must  be  tired,  but 
then,  you  see,  you  can't  go  to  sleep  on  an  outside  car, 
so  one  may  as  well  talk.  How  far  are  we  from  Cloyne 
now?" — to  Moriarty. 

"  Nine  miles,  sorr." 

"  Good !  I  say,  you  said  this  car  belonged  to  a  Mr. 
French.  I  met  a  Mr.  French  six  months  ago  in  London 
— a  Mr.  Michael  French." 

"  That's  him,  sorr." 

"  Well,  that's  funny,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  I  met 
him  at  my  club,  and  he  told  me  he  lived  somewhere  in 
Ireland — a  big  man,  very  big  man — goes  in  for  horses." 

"  That's  him,  sorr." 

"  Awfully  rummy  coincidence,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood, 
turning  to  his  companion.  "  I  lost  two  ponies  to  him 
over  the  Gatwick  Selling  Plate." 

"  That's  him,  sorr,"  said  Moriarty  with  conviction. 

"  Awfully  funny ;  do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Miss  Grimshaw.     "  At  least  only  by 


GARRYOWEN  39 

writing  to  him.  I'm  going  there  for  a  while  to  act  as 
governess,"  she  explained. 

"  And  of  course  I'll  call  there  to-morrow  and  look 
him  up ;  well,  it's  extraordinary,  really.  Joke  if  we 
met  someone  else  going  to  see  him  that  had  been  lost 
and  wandering  about  all  day;  sort  of  Canterbury  pil- 
grimage, you  know.  And  we  could  all  sit  round  the 
fire  at  the  inn  and  tell  tales." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw  devoutly,  think- 
ing of  the  gentleman  they  had  left  at  the  old  castle 
and  the  tale  he'd  have  to  tell. 

Moriarty  was  now  talking  to  the  Dancing  Mistress, 
telling  her  of  the  feed  of  corn  waiting  for  her  at  the 
inn,  and  they  jogged  along  rapidly,  the  sinking  moon 
at  their  back,  till  presently  a  few  glow-worm  sparks 
before  them  indicated  the  lights  of  Cloyne. 

"  How  long  will  you  be  getting  the  other  horse?  " 
asked  Miss  Grimshaw  of  Moriarty  as  they  drew  up  at 
the  inn,  which  was  still  open. 

"  I  don't  know,  miss.     I'll  ax,"  replied  Moriarty. 

Mr.  Dashwood  helped  his  companion  down,  and  she 
followed  him  into  the  passage,  and  from  there  to  the 
sitting-room. 

A  bright  turf  fire  was  burning,  and  the  table  was 
still  laid,  and  almost  immediately  Biddy  appeared  to 
say  that  Mr.  French  had  sent  word  that  the  lady  was 
to  stay  at  the  inn  and  make  herself  comfortable  for 
the  night  and  to  come  on  to  Drumgool  in  the  morning, 
and  to  say  he  was  sorry  that  she  should  have  been  put 
to  any  inconvenience  on  account  of  the  horses,  all  of 
which  seemed  as  wonderful  as  wireless  telegraphy  to 


40  GARRYOWEN 

Miss  Grimshaw,  inasmuch  as  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
gossoon  Moriarty  had  despatched  to  his  master  earlier 
in  the  evening,  with  a  succinct  message  stating  his 
plan  against  the  bailiff,  and  the  absolute  necessity  of 
taking  the  governess  along,  lest  the  said  bailiff,  seeing 
the  governess  and  luggage  left  behind  at  the  inn,  might 
smell  a  rat. 

"  And  what'll  you  be  plazed  to  have  for  supper, 
miss?"  asked  Biddy. 

"What  can  you  give  us?"  asked  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  Anything  you  like,  sorr." 

"  Well,  get  us  a  cold  roast  chicken  and  some  ham. 
I'm  sure  you'd  like  chicken,  wouldn't  you?  "  turning  to 
the  girl. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  as  long  as  they  haven't  to  cook 
it.  I'm  famished." 

Biddy  retired.  There  was  no  cold  chicken  and  there 
was  no  ham  on  the  premises ;  but  the  spirit  of  hospi- 
tality demanded  that  ten  minutes  should  be  spent  in 
pretending  to  look  for  them. 

They  had  fried  rashers  of  bacon — there  were  no 
eggs — and  tea,  and  when  Miss  Grimshaw  retired  for 
the  night  to  a  stuffy  bedroom  ornamented  with  a  stuffed 
cat,  she  could  hear  the  deep  tones  of  Moriarty's  voice 
colloguing  with  Mrs.  Sheelan,  telling  her  most  likely 
of  the  trick  he  had  played  on  the  bailiff  man. 

She  wondered  how  far  that  benighted  individual  had 
wandered  by  this  time  on  his  road  to  Cloyne,  and  what 
he  would  say  to  Moriarty,  and  what  Moriarty  would 
say  to  him,  when  they  met. 

She    could   not  but   perceive   that   the   commercial 


GARRYOWEN  41 

morality  of  the  house  she  was  going  to  was  of  an  old- 
fashioned  type,  dating  from  somewhere  in  the  times  of 
the  buccaneers,  and  she  felt  keenly  interested  in  the 
probable  personality  of  Mr.  French. 

Moriarty  she  liked  unreservedly;  and  in  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  her  fellow-stranger  in  this  unknown  land,  she 
felt  an  interest  which  he  was  returning  as  he  lay  in 
bed,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  his  head  on  a  pillow  stuffed 
presumably  with  brickbats. 


CHAPTER    V 

ANDY  MEEHAN  was  a  jockey  who  had  already  won  Mr. 
French  three  races.  He  was  a  product  of  the  estate, 
and  a  prodigy,  though  by  no  means  an  infant. 

Nobody  knew  his  age  exactly.  Under  five  feet,  com- 
posed mostly  of  bone  with  a  little  skin  stretched  tightly 
over  it,  with  a  face  that  his  cap  nearly  obliterated, 
Andy  presented  a  problem  in  physiology  very  difficult 
of  solution.  That  is  to  say,  in  Mr.  French's  words, 
the  more  he  ate  the  lighter  he  grew.  In  the  old  days, 
before  Mr.  French  took  him  into  his  stable  as 
helper,  when  food  was  scarce  and  Andy  half-starved, 
he  was  comparatively  fat.  Housed  and  fed  well,  he 
waxed  thin,  and  kicked.  Kicked  for  a  better  job,  and 
got  it.  He  was  a  Heaven-born  jockey.  He  possessed 
hands,  knees,  and  head.  He  was  made  to  go  on  a 
horse  just  as  a  limpet  is  made  to  go  on  a  rock.  Noth- 
ing on  the  ground,  he  was  everything  when  mounted. 
He  was  insight,  dexterity,  coolness,  courage,  and  judg- 
ment. 

Several  owners  had  tried  to  lure  Andy  away  from 
his  master.  Prospects  of  good  pay  and  advancement, 
however,  had  no  charm  for  Andy.  French  was  his 
master,  and  to  all  alien  offers  Andy  had  only  one  reply. 
"  To  h — 1  wid  them."  I  doubt  if  Andy's  vocabulary 
had  more  than  two  hundred  words.  Except  to  Mr. 
French  or  Moriarty  he  was  very  speechless.  "  Yes  " 
42 


GARRYOWEN  43 

and  "  No  "  for  ordinary  purposes,  and  when  he  was 
vexed,  "  To  h — 1  wid  you,"  served  his  almost  everyday 
needs. 

Last  night  he  had  single-handed  taken  Nip  and 
Tuck  to  the  station,  and  entrained  them,  returning  on 
foot,  and  this  morning  he  was  mending  an  old  saddle 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  stableyard  when  Mr.  French  ap- 
peared at  the  gate.  Mr.  French  had  come  out  of  the 
house  without  his  hat.  He  had  a  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  gave  some  direc- 
tions to  Andy  to  be  handed  on  to  Moriarty  when  that 
personage  arrived,  and  then  with  his  own  hand  opened 
the  upper  door  of  a  loose-box. 

A  lovely  head  was  thrust  out.  It  was  Garryowen's. 
The  eye  so  full  of  kindliness  and  fire,  the  mobile  nos- 
trils telling  of  delicate  sensibilities  and  fine  feeling,  the 
nobility  and  intelligence  that  spoke  in  every  line  of 
that  delicately-cut  head — these  had  to  be  seen  to  be 
understood. 

Garryowen  was  more  than  a  horse  to  Mr.  French. 
He  was  a  friend,  and  more  even  than  that.  Garry- 
owen was  to  pull  the  family  fortunes  out  of  the  mire, 
to  raise  the  family  name,  to  crown  his  master  with 
laurels. 

Garryowen  was  French's  last  card  on  which  he  was 
about  to  speculate  his  last  penny.  In  simpler  lan- 
guage, he  was  to  run  in  the  City  and  Suburban  in  the 
ensuing  year  and  to  win  it.  I  dare  say  you  have 
already  gathered  the  fact  that  Mr.  French's  financial 
affairs  were  rather  involved.  The  Nip  and  Tuck  in- 
cident, however,  was  only  a  straw  showing  the  direc- 


44  GAKRYOWEN 

tion  of  the  wind,  which  threatened  in  a  few  months 
to  strengthen  into  a  gale.  Only  an  incident — for 
the  debt  to  Harrison  was  not  considerable,  and  it  would 
not  require  more  than  a  week  or  so  to  collect  the  money 
to  satisfy  it. 

The  bother  to  Mr.  French  was  that  in  the  spring 
of  next  year  he  would  have  to  find  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  to  satisfy  the  claims  of  a  gentleman  named 
Lewis,  and  how  he  was  to  do  this  and  at  the  same 
time  bear  the  expense  of  getting  the  horse  to  England 
and  running  him  was  a  question  quite  beyond  solution 
at  present. 

Not  only  had  the  horse  to  be  run,  but  he  had  to  be 
backed. 

French  had  decided  to  win  the  City  and  Suburban. 
He  wished  sometimes  now  that  he  had  made  Punches- 
town  the  limit  of  his  desires;  but  having  come  to  a 
decision,  this  gentleman  never  went  back  on  it.  Be- 
sides, he  would  never  have  so  good  a  chance  again 
of  winning  a  big  English  race  and  a  fortune  at  the 
same  time,  for  Garryowen  was  a  dark  horse,  if  ever  a 
horse  was  dark,  and  a  flyer,  if  ever  a  creature  without 
wings  deserved  the  title. 

"Oh,  bother  the  money!  We'll  get  it  somehow," 
French  would  say,  closing  his  bank-book  and  tearing 
up  the  sheet  of  note-paper  on  which  he  had  been  mak- 
ing figures.  He  calculated  that,  gathering  together 
all  his  resources,  he  would  have  enough  to  run  the 
horse  and  back  him  for  a  thousand.  To  do  this  he 
would  have  to  perform  the  most  intricate  evolutions 


GARRYOWEN  45 

in  the  borrowing  line.  It  could  be  done,  however,  if 
Lewis  were  left  out  of  the  calculation. 

The  fifteen  hundred  owing  to  Lewis  was  a  debt 
which  would  have  to  be  paid  by  the  third  of  March, 
and  the  City  and  Suburban  is  run  in  April.  If  it  were 
not  paid  then  Lewis  would  seize  Garryowen  with  the 
rest  of  Mr.  French's  goods,  and  that  unfortunate  gen- 
tleman would  be  stranded  so  high  and  dry  that  he 
would  never  swim  again. 

The  one  bright  spot  in  his  affairs  was  the  fact  that 
Effie  had  two  hundred  and  fifty  a  year,  settled  on  her 
so  tightly  by  a  prescient  grandfather  that  no  art 
or  artifice  could  unsettle  it  or  fling  it  into  the  melting- 
pot. 

This  was  French's  pet  grievance,  and  by  a  man's  pet 
grievance  you  may  generally  know  him. 

Garryowen  blew  into  his  master's  waistcoat,  allowed 
his  ears  to  be  stroked,  nibbled  a  lump  of  sugar,  and 
replied  to  some  confidential  remarks  of  his  owner  by  a 
subdued,  flickering  whinny.  Then  Mr.  French  barred 
the  door,  and,  leaving  the  stableyard,  came  out  into 
the  kitchen-garden,  whence  a  good  view  could  be  had 
of  the  road. 

The  adventure  of  the  governess  on  the  preceding 
night  had  greatly  tickled  his  fancy.  The  idea  of  a 
sedate,  elderly  lady  assisting,  even  unwillingly,  in  the 
marooning  of  the  bailiff,  had  amused  him,  but  that  was 
nothing  to  the  fact  that  Moriarty  had  used  her  for 
bait. 

This   morning,   however,   the   amusement   had   worn 


46  GARRYOWEN 

off,  and  he  was  reckoning  uncomfortably  on  an  inter- 
view with  an  outraged  elderly  female,  who  would  pos- 
sibly carry  her  resentment  to  the  point  of  renouncing 
her  situation  and  returning  home. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  pointed  to  half-past 
ten.  He  looked  at  the  road  winding  away,  a  white 
streak  utterly  destitute  of  life  or  sign  of  Moriarty,  the 
car,  or  the  dreaded  governess.  The  fine  weather  still 
held,  and  the  distant  hills  stood  out  grand  in  the  brave 
morning  light. 

The  gossoon  sent  by  Moriarty  the  previous  day  had 
announced  that  Moriarty  was  going  to  drive  the  bail- 
iff to  the  "  ould  castle  "  and  drop  him  there,  at  the 
same  time  giving  full  details  of  the  plan.  The  arrival 
of  the  outraged  bailiff  had  to  be  counted  on  later  in 
the  day,  and  would,  no  doubt,  form  a  counterpart  to 
the  arrival  of  the  outraged  governess. 

To  a  man  of  French's  philosophical  nature,  how- 
ever, these  things  were,  to  quote  Sophocles,  "  in  the 
future,"  non-existent  at  present  and  not  worth  both- 
ering about  till  they  materialised  themselves. 

As  he  stood,  casting  a  leisurely  glance  over  the  great 
sweep  of  country  that  lay  before  him,  a  black,  moving 
speck  far  away  on  the  road  caught  his  eye.  He 
watched  it  as  it  drew  nearer  and  developed.  It  was 
the  car.  He  shaded  his  eyes  as  it  approached.  Three 
people  were  on  it — Morarity  and  two  others,  a  woman 
and  a  man. 

The  idea  that  the  bailiff  and  the  governess  were 
arriving  together,  allied  forces  prepared  to  attack 
him,  crossed  his  brain  for  one  wild  instant.  Then  he 


GARRYOWEN  47 

dismissed  it.  Moriarty  was  much  too  clever  a  diplo- 
mat to  allow  such  a  thing  as  that. 

Then  as  the  car  came  up  the  drive  he  saw  that  the 
woman  was  a  young  and  pretty  girl,  and  the  man 
youthful  and  well  dressed,  and,  concluding  that  the 
governess  had  vanished  into  thin  air,  and  that  these 
were  visitors  of  some  sort,  he  hurried  back  to  the  house 
and  shouted  for  Norah,  the  parlour-maid. 

"  Open  the  drawing-room  and  pull  up  the  blinds," 
cried  Mr.  French.  "  There's  visitors  coming.  Let  them 
in,  and  tell  them  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute." 

He  ran  upstairs  to  make  himself  tidy,  being  at  the 
moment  attired  in  a  shocking  old  shooting-coat  gone 
at  the  elbows,  and  as  to  his  feet,  in  a  pair  of  carpet 
slippers. 

As  he  changed  he  heard  the  visitors  being  admitted, 
and  then  Norah  came  tumbling  up  the  stairs  and 
thumped  at  his  door. 

"  They're  in  the  draaing-room,  sir !  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  French.  "  I'll  be  down  in  a 
minute." 

Mr.  Dashwood  and  his  companion  had  breakfasted 
together  at  the  inn.  The  double  Freemasonry  of  youth 
and  health  had  made  the  meal  a  happy  affair,  despite 
the  teapot  with  a  broken  spout,  the  bad,  sad,  salt 
bacon,  and  the  tea  that  tasted  like  a  decoction  of  ma- 
hogany shavings. 

It  was  Miss  Grimshaw  who  proposed  that,  as  Mr. 
Dashwood  was  going  to  see  his  friend,  and  as  she  was 
bound  on  the  same  errand,  they  might  use  the  same 
car. 


48  GARRYOWEN 

Moriarty,  who  was  consulted,  consented  with  alac- 
rity. 

"  He's  not  turned  up  yet,  miss,"  said  Moriarty,  as 
he  held  the  horse  while  Miss  Grimshaw  got  on  the  car. 

"I  wonder  what's  become  of  him?"  said  the  girl, 
settling  the  rug  on  her  knees. 

"  Faith,  and  I  expect  he's  wonderin'  that  himself," 
said  Morarity,  taking  the  reins ;  "  unless  he's  tuck  a 
short  cut  across  the  country  and  landed  in  a  bog- 
hole."  All  of  which  was  Greek  to  Mr.  Dashwood. 

In  the  drawing-room  of  Drumgool  House  they  were 
now  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Mr.  French. 

"  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  I  hope  he  is  the 
man  I  met  in  London." 

"  I  hope  so,  too,"  said  the  girl,  looking  round  the 
quaint  old  room,  with  its  potpourri  vases,  its  anti- 
macassars, its  furniture  of  a  distant  day.  The  place 
smelt  like  an  old  valentine  with  a  tinge  of  musk  cling- 
ing to  it.  Pretty  women  had  once  sat  here,  had  played 
on  that  rosewood  piano  whose  voice  was  like  the  voice 
of  a  harp  in  the  bass,  like  a  banjo  in  the  treble;  had 
woven  antimacassars,  had  read  the  romances  of  Mr. 
Richardson,  had  waited  for  the  gentlemen  after  dinner, 
the  claret-flushed  gentlemen  whose  cheery  voices  would 
be  heard  no  more. 

"I  hope  so,  too,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw.  "I'm  all 
right,  for  I'm  the  governess,  you  know.  If  he  isn't, 
it  will  look  very  strange  us  arriving  together,  so  you 
must  explain,  please.  Are  you  good  at  explaining 
things?" 


GARRYOWEN  49 

"Rather!  I  say,  is  he  a  family  man?  I  mean,  are 
there  a  lot  of  children?  " 

"  No.  Mr.  French  has  only  one  little  daughter,  an 
invalid.  I'm  not  a  real  governess.  I  don't  take  a 

salary,  and  all  that.  I've  just  come  over  to 

Well,  I  want  a  home  for  a  while,  and  I  want  to  see 
Ireland." 

"  Strikes  me  you'll  see  a  lot  of  it  here,"  said  Mr. 
Dashwood,  looking  out  at  the  vast  solitudes  to  the  east, 
where  the  hills  stood  ranged  like  armed  men  guarding 
a  country  where  the  bird  shadow  and  the  cloud  shadow 
were  the  only  moving  things. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  and  yawned.  She  liked 
Mr.  Dashwood,  but  his  light-hearted  conversation  just 
now  rather  palled  upon  her. 

"And  won't  you  catch  it  in  the  winter  here?"  said 
he,  as  he  watched  Croag  Mahon,  a  giant  monolith, 
sunlit  a  moment  ago,  and  now  wreathing  itself  with 
mist  just  as  a  lady  wreathes  herself  with  a  filmy  scarf. 
"  What  on  earth  will  you  do  with  yourself  when  it 
rains?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Miss  Grimshaw.  "  Don't 
be  gloomy.  Ah!" 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  French  entered  the  room 
— a  gentleman  that  Bobby  Dashwood  had  never  seen 
in  his  life  before. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE  master  of  Drumgool,  genial  and  cosey,  and  the 
very  personification  of  welcome,  had  scarcely  taken  in 
with  a  glance  the  two  pleasant-looking  young  people 
who  had  invaded  his  drawing-room  when  the  explainer 
of  situations  rushed  into  the  breach. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  he,  "  but  I've  made  a  mis- 
take. I  met  this  young  lady  at  the  inn  at  Cloyne, 
and  as  she  was  coming  here  I  came  on  the  same  car, 
for  I  thought  you  were  a  Mr.  Michael  French  I'd  met 
in  London.  I've  been  fishing  down  here." 

"  You  expected  me  last  night,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 
"  My  name  is  Grimshaw." 

"  Faith,"  said  Mr.  French,  "  this  is  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise. Sit  down,  sit  down." 

"  I  ought  to  say  my  name  is  Dashwood,"  put  in  the 
explainer. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down.  I'm  delighted  to  see  you 
both.  Staying  at  the  inn,  are  you?  And  how  do  you 
like  Mrs.  Sheelan?  And  you  met  at  the  inn?  Of 
course  you  did.  Miss  Grimshaw,  I  don't  know  how,  in 
the  name  of  wonder,  I'm  going  to  apologise  to  you  for 
driving  you  all  over  the  country.  Is  that  chair  easy? 
No,  it's  not — take  this  one.  Look  at  it  before  you 
sit  in  it.  Dan  O'Connell  took  his  seat  in  that  chair 
when  he  was  here  for  the  elections,  in  my  grandfather's 
time,  and  I  have  the  bed  upstairs  he  slept  in.  Which 
50 


GARRYOWEN  51 

Michael  French,  I  wonder,  was  it  you  met?  Was  it  a 
man  with  a  big,  black  beard?" 

«  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  And  gold-rimmed  spectacles?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Did  he  bawl  like  a  bull?" 

"  He  had  rather  a  loud  voice." 

"  That's  him.  He's  my  cousin,  bad  luck  to  him ! 
No  matter.  I'll  be  even  with  him  some  day  yet.  He's 
the  biggest  black — I  mean,  we  have  never  been  friends ; 
but  that's  always  the  way  between  relations.  And  that 
reminds  me — I've  never  bid  you  welcome  to  Drumgool, 
Miss  Grimshaw.  Welcome  you  are  to  the  house  and 
all  it  holds,  and  make  yourself  at  home !  And  here  we 
are  sitting  in  the  old  drawing-room  that's  only  used 
for  company  once  in  a  twelvemonth.  Come  down  to 
the  sitting-room,  both  of  you.  There's  a  fire  there, 
and  Effie  will  be  in  in  a  minute.  She's  out  driving  in 
the  donkey-carriage.  This  isn't  a  bad  bit  of  an  old 
hall,  is  it?  "  continued  he  as  they  passed  through  the 
hall.  "  It's  the  oldest  part  of  the  house.  Do  you  see 
that  split  in  the  panelling  up  there?  That's  where  a 
bullet  went  in  the  duel  between  Counsellor  Kinsella  and 
Colonel  White.  *  Black  White '  was  his  nickname,  and 
well  he  deserved  it.  They  fought  here,  for  it  was 
snowing  so  thick  outside  you  couldn't  see  a  man  at 
ten  paces.  Eighteen  hundred  and  one,  that  was,  and 
they  in  their  graves  all  these  years !  No,  no  one  was 
killed.  Only  a  tenant  that  had  come  in  to  see  the 
fun,  and  he  got  in  the  line  of  fire.  He  recovered,  I 
believe,  though  they  say  he  carried  the  bullet  in  his 


52  GARRYOWEN 

head  to  the  end  of  his  days.  This  is  the  sitting-room. 
It's  the  warmest  room  in  winter.  The  old  house  is 
as  full  of  holes  as  a  colander,  but  you'll  never  get  a 
draught  here.  Norah !  " — putting  his  head  out  of  the 
door. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Bring  the  decanters.  You  don't  mind  smoking, 
Miss  Grimshaw?  That's  a  good  job.  Are  you  fond 
of  horses,  Mr.  Dashwood?  " 

"  Rather." 

"Well,  there's  the  hoof  of  the  Shaughraun.  He 
carried  everything  before  him  in  Ireland.  He  was  my 
grandfather's,  and  he  was  entered  for  the  Derby,  and 
some  blackguards  poisoned  him.  It  would  be  before 
your  time,  and  his  death  made  more  stir  than  the 
death  of  anything  that  ever  went  on  four  legs,  except, 
maybe,  old  Nebuchadnezzar.  They  made  songs  about 
it,  and  I  have  a  ballad  upstairs  in  my  desk  a  yard 
long  my  father  bought  from  an  old  woman  in  Abbey- 
street.  Here's  the  whisky.  Sure,  Norah,  what  have 
you  been  dreaming  about,  and  why  didn't  you  bring 
the  wine  for  the  young  lady  ?  Not  drink  wine !  Well, 
now,  just  say  the  word,  and  I'll  get  you  some  tea. 
Or  would  you  like  coffee?  Well,  well.  Say  'when,' 
Mr.  Dashwood." 

"I  like  this  room,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  looking 
round  at  the  books  and  the  oak  panelling.  "  It's  so 
cosey,  and  yet  so  ghosty.  Have  you  a  ghost  ?  " 

"A  which?  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  French, 
pausing  in  his  operations  with  a  soda-water  siphon. 

"A  ghost." 


GARRYOWEN  53 

"  I  believe  there's  an  old  woman  without  a  head 
walks  in  the  top  corridor  by  the  servants'  bedrooms. 
At  least,  that's  the  story ;  but  it's  all  nonsense,  though 
it  does  to  frighten  the  girls  with,  and  get  them  to 
bed  early.  Who's  that?" 

"If  you  plaze,  sir,"  said  Norah,  speaking  through 
the  half-open  door,  "  Miss  Effie's  back  from  her  drive 
and  upstairs,  and  she's  wild  to  see  the  young 
lady." 

"  That's  me,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw.  "  I'll 
go  up,  if  I  may." 

"  Sure,  with  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  French,  holding  the 
door  open  for  her  with  all  the  grace  of  a  Brummell, 
while  the  girl  passed  out. 

Then  he  closed  the  door,  waited  till  she  was  well 
out  of  earshot,  and  then,  sitting  down  in  an  armchair, 
he  "  rocked  and  roared  "  with  laughter. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  said  he,  though  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  had  not  said  a  word.  "  Did  you  ever  see  me 
trying  to  keep  my  face?  Sure,  man,  she's  the  gov- 
erness, and  I  thought  it  was  an  old  lady  in  spectacles 
that  would  be  coming.  Faith,  and  I'll  have  to  get  a 
chaperon.  You  might  have  blown  me  away  with  a 
fan  when  she  said  who  she  was.  But  I  didn't  let  on, 
did  I?  I  didn't  show  the  start  she's  given  me?  Are 
you  sure  ?  " 

Assured  on  this  point,  Mr.  French  poured  himself 
out  another  glass  of  whisky.  He  explained  that  he'd 
got  Miss  Grimshaw  "  out  of  an  advertisement."  Then, 
much  to  the  edification  of  Mr.  Dashwood,  he  went  into 
the  bailiff  business,  the  beauty  of  Nip  and  Tuck,  the 


54  GARRYOWEN 

price  Colonel  Sherbourne  had  paid,  explaining  that  it 
was  not  the  money  he  cared  about  so  much  as  the 
injury  it  would  have  done  him  in  Sherbourne's  estima- 
tion if  the  horses  had  not  been  delivered. 

It  was  an  adventure  after  the  heart  of  Bobby  Dash- 
wood,  who,  in  his  short  life,  had  dealt  freely  and  been 
dealt  with  by  money-lenders.  Mr.  Dashwood  was  what 
women  call  a  "  nice-looking  boy,"  but  he  was  not  par- 
ticularly intellectual  when  you  got  him  off  the  sub- 
jects he  had  made  particularly  his  own.  He  had  failed 
for  Sandhurst.  If  a  proficiency  in  cricket  and  fives 
had  been  allowed  to  count,  he  would  have  got  high 
marks;  but  they  wanted  mathematics,  and  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  could  not  supply  this  requirement;  in  French, 
too,  he  was  singularly  deficient.  The  deficiencies  of 
Mr.  Dashwood  would  have  furnished  out  half  a  dozen 
young  men  well  equipped  for  failure  in  business,  and 
that  is  why,  I  suppose,  he  managed  to  make  such  a 
success  of  life. 

The  joy  Mr.  Dashwood  managed  to  extract  from 
that  usually  un joyful  thing  called  life  hinted  at  al- 
chemy rather  than  chemistry.  Joy,  too,  without  any 
by-products  in  the  way  of  headaches  or  heartaches. 
Utterly  irresponsible,  but  without  a  serious  vice,  al- 
ways bright,  clean,  and  healthy,  and  alert  for  any 
sort  of  sport  as  a  terrier,  he  was  as  good  to  meet  and 
have  around  one  as  a  spring  morning — that  is  to  say, 
when  one  was  in  tune  for  him. 

He  had  five  hundred  a  year  of  his  own,  with  pros- 
pects of  great  wealth  on  the  death  of  an  uncle,  and 
even  out  of  this  poverty  he  managed  to  extract  pleas- 


GARRYOWEN  55 

ure  of  a  sort  in  the  excitement  of  settling  with  cred- 
itors and  trying  to  make  both  ends  meet — which  they 
never  did. 

"What  a  joke!"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "And  she 
never  split.  She  said  she'd  been  leaving  a  gentleman 
at  an  old  castle — and  she  never  grumbled,  though  she 
was  nearly  dropping  off  the  car.  I  say,  isn't  she  a 
ripper?  " 

"  Here's  to  her,"  said  French.  "  And  now,  come 
out  and  have  a  look  at  the  stables  and  grounds. 
Lunch  is  at  one,  and  we  have  an  hour." 

The  youth  and  prettiness  of  Miss  Grimshaw  after 
the  first  pleasing  shock  did  not  trouble  him  in  the 
least.  A  straight-minded  man  and  a  soul  of  honour 
in  everything  not  appertaining  to  bill  discounters,  the 
propriety  or  impropriety  of  the  situation  did  not  cause 
him  a  moment's  thought.  The  only  thing  that  wor- 
ried him  for  a  second  or  two  was  the  remembrance  of 
Mr.  Giveen.  How  would  that  gentleman  act  under 
the  intoxication  sure  to  be  produced  by  the  newcomer's 
youth  and  prettiness? 

"  She'd  have  been  down  herself  to  see  you,  miss," 
said  Norah  as  she  led  the  way  upstairs,  "  only  she's 
gone  in  the  legs.  This  way,  miss,  along  the  passidge ; 
this  is  the  door." 

A  scuffling  noise  made  itself  evident  as  Norah  turned 
the  door-handle,  and  Miss  Grimshaw,  entering  a 
brightly  and  pleasantly  furnished  room,  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  Miss  French,  who  was  sitting  up  on 
a  sofa,  flushed  and  bright-eyed  and  with  the  appear- 
ance of  having  suddenly  returned  to  her  invalidhood 


56  GARRYOWEN 

and  position  on  the  couch  after  an  excursion  about 
the  apartment. 

"Hullo!  "said  the  child. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Oh,  will  you  look  at  her?  "  cried  Norah.  "  And 
the  rug  I  put  round  her  legs  all  over  the  place !  You've 
been  off  the  couch,  Miss  Effie ! " 

"  I  only  put  my  feet  on  the  ground,"  protested  the 
child.  "  You  needn't  be  going  on  at  me.  Bother  my 
old  legs  !  I  wish  they  was  cut  off !  " 

"  And  so  you  are  Effie  ?  "  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  tak- 
ing her  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  couch.  "  Do  you  know 
who  I  am  ?  " 

"Rather,"  replied  Miss  French.  "You're  Miss 
Grimshaw." 

There  was  a  subdued  chuckle  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  as  though  Miss  Grimshaw  was  a  joke  that  had 
just  come  off,  rather  than  a  governess  who  had  just 
arrived — a  chuckle  hinting  at  the  fact  that  Miss  Grim- 
shaw had  been  the  subject  of  humorous  discussion  and 
speculation  in  the  French  household  for  some  time 
past. 

"  You'll  ring,  miss,  when  you  want  me  to  show  you 
your  room?"  said  Norah.  Then  she  withdrew,  and 
Miss  Grimshaw  found  herself  alone  with  her  charge. 

The  room  was  half  nursery,  half  sitting-room,  pa- 
pered with  a  sprightly  green-sprigged  and  rose-pat- 
terned paper.  Pictures  from  Christmas  numbers  of  the 
Graphic  and  pictures  of  cats  by  Louis  Wain  adorned 
the  walls ;  there  were  a  number  of  yellow-backed  books 
on  the  book-shelf,  and  in  one  corner  a  pile  of  old  comic 


GARRYOWEN  57 

papers — Punches,  Judys,  and  Funs — all  of  an  ancient 
date. 

All  the  light  literature  in  Drumgool  House  found 
its  way  here — and  remained.  The  yellow-backed  books 
were  the  works  of  Arthur  Sketchley,  a  most  pleasing 
humourist  whose  name  has  faded  almost  from  our  mem- 
ories. "  Mrs.  Brown's  'Oliday  Outings,"  "  Mrs.  Brown 
in  Paris,"  "  Mrs.  Brown  at  the  Seaside " — all  were 
here.  They  had  been  bought  by  some  member  of  the 
French  family  with  a  taste  for  humour,  as  had  also 
the  comic  papers. 

To  Miss  French  in  her  captivity  the  dead-and-gone 
artists,  the  dead-and-gone  jokes,  the  fashions  and 
manners  of  the  eighties,  which  are  as  Thebes  to  us, 
were  fresh  and  vigorous.  Up-to-date  papers  and  books 
came  little  in  her  way,  for  French  was  not  a  reading 
man. 


CHAPTER    VH 

"WHEBE'S  your  spectacles?"  asked  Effie,  after  they 
had  conversed  for  a  while,  tucking  the  rug  round  her- 
self and  speaking  with  the  jocularity  and  familiarity 
which  generally  is  associated  with  long  acquaintance- 
ship. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Father  said  you'd  be  in  spectacles." 

"  Oh,  my  spectacles — they  are  coming  by  the  next 
train.  Also  my  snuffbox  and  a  birch-rod." 

"  Get  out  with  you ! "  said  Miss  French,  moving 
under  the  rug,  as  if  someone  had  tickled  her.  "  Your 
snuffbox  and  your  birch-rod !  Get  out  with  you !  " 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Miss  Grimshaw  had  come 
across  a  child  brought  up  almost  entirely  by  servants 
— and  Irish  servants  at  that — but  there  was  an  entire 
good  humour  about  the  product  that  made  it  not  dis- 
pleasing. 

"So  that's  how  you  welcome  me,  telling  me  to  get 
out  almost  as  soon  as  I  have  come!  Very  well,  I  am 
going." 

"  Off  with  you,  then !  "  replied  the  other,  falling  into 
the  vein  of  badinage  as  easily  as  a  billiard  ball  into  a 
pocket.  "  Patwallop,  along  with  you.  I  don't  care. 
Hi !  come  back." 

"  What  is  it  ? "  inquired  Miss  Grimshaw,  now  at 
the  door,  with  her  hand  on  the  door  handle. 


GARRYOWEN  59 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  somethin'." 

"Well?" 

"  I  want  to  whisper  it." 

Miss  Grimshaw  came  to  the  couch. 

"Bend  down  closer." 

She  bent.  Two  small  arms  flung  themselves  tentacle- 
wise  round  her  neck,  and  she  was  nearly  deafened  by 
a  "  Boo ! "  in  her  ear,  followed  and  apologised  for  by 
a  moist  and  warm-hearted  kiss. 

Extract  from  a  letter  addressed  by  Miss  V.  Grim- 
shaw to  a  friend: 

"  Since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  young  Mr.  Dashwood 
has  left.  He  stayed  three  days.  Mr.  French  insisted 
on  his  staying,  sent  for  his  luggage  to  the  inn  at 
Cloyne,  put  him  up  in  the  best  bedroom,  where  I  be- 
lieve Dan  O'Connell  once  slept,  and  kept  him  up  till 
all  hours  of  the  morning,  drinking  far  more  whisky 
than  was  good  for  his  constitution,  I  am  sure. 

"We  had  an  awfully  good  time  while  he  was  here, 
and  the  house  seems  a  little  dull  now  that  he  is  gone. 
He  asked  me  before  he  left  if  he  might  write  to  me 
and  tell  me  how  he  was  getting  on.  But  he  hasn't 
written  yet.  He  was  a  nice  boy,  but  irresponsible. 
And,  talking  of  irresponsibility,  the  word  does  not 
even  vaguely  describe  the  affairs  of  this  household. 

"  I  told  you  of  the  bailiff  man.  Well,  he  arrived  in 
a  closed  carriage  from  Cloyne  next  day,  and  has  been 
in  bed  ever  since  with  influenza,  caught  by  exposure  on 
the  moors.  He  is  convalescent  now,  and  I  met  him  in 


60  GARRYOWEN 

the  garden  this  morning,  *  taking  the  air  on  a  stick,' 
to  use  Mr.  French's  expression.  I  believe  the  debt  is 
paid  to  Mr.  Harrison,  but  the  bailiff  is  staying  on  as 
a  guest.  Mr.  French  gets  me  at  night  sometimes  to 
help  him  in  his  accounts.  He  tells  me  all  his  affairs 
and  money  worries.  His  affairs  are  simply  appalling, 
and  he  has  a  mad  scheme  for  running  a  horse  next 
spring  in  a  big  English  race,  the  Suburban  something 
or  other,  by  which  he  hopes  to  make  a  fortune.  When 
I  point  out  the  impossibility  of  the  thing,  he  closes 
up  his  account-books  and  says  there  is  no  use  in  meet- 
ing troubles  half-way. 

"  Effie  is  a  bright  little  thing,  but  there  is  some- 
thing about  her  I  can't  quite  understand.  She  has  a 
secret,  which  she  tells  me  she  is  going  to  tell  me  some 
day,  but  what  it  is  I  can't  make  out.  Now  I  must 
stop.  Oh,  but  I  forgot.  How  shall  I  say  it?  How 
shall  I  tell  it?  I  have  an  admirer.  He  is  a  little  mad, 
a  cousin  of  Mr.  French's.  You  remember  those  pic- 
tures of  Sunny  Jim  we  used  to  admire  on  the  posters? 
Well,  he  is  not  like  that ;  much  stouter  and  more  seri- 
ous looking,  and  yet  there  is  a  family  resemblance. 
He  has  taken  to  haunting  me. 

"  Mr.  French  has  warned  me  not  to  mind  him.  He 
says  he  is  sure  to  propose  to  me,  but  that  I'm  not  to 
be  offended,  as  it's  a  disease  *  the  poor  creature  is 
afflicted  with,  just  as  if  he  had  epileptic  fits,'  and  that 
he  would  make  eyes  at  a  broomstick  with  a  skirt  on 
it  if  he  could  get  nothing  else;  all  of  which  is  inter- 
esting, but  scarcely  complimentary.  Things  are  so 
dull  just  at  present  that  I  really  think  I  must  lead 


GARRYOWEN  61 

him  on.  I  am  sure  when  he  does  do  it  it  will  be  aw- 
fully funny.  His  name  is  Giveen.  Everything  is 
queer  about  him. 

"  It  rained  yesterday  and  the  day  before,  but  to-day 
is  simply  glorious.  And  now  I  must  stop  in  earnest. 
— Ever  yours  lovingly,  VIOLET." 

Miss  Grimshaw  had  been  writing  her  letter  at  the 
writing-table  in  the  sitting-room  window.  The  sitting- 
room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  as  she  looked  up 
from  addressing  the  envelope,  Mr.  Giveen,  at  the  win- 
dow and  backed  by  the  glorious  September  afternoon, 
met  her  gaze. 

He  was  looking  in  at  her.  How  long  he  had  been 
standing  at  the  window  gazing  upon  her  it  would  be 
impossible  to  say.  Irritated  at  having  been  spied  upon, 
Miss  Grimshaw  frowned  at  Mr.  Giveen,  who  smiled  in 
return,  at  the  same  time  motioning  her  to  open  the 
window. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  putting  up  the  sash. 

"  Come  out  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Giveen.  "  Michael 
is  off  at  Drumboyne,  and  there's  no  one  to  know.  Put 
on  your  hat  and  come  out  with  me." 

"  Go  out  with  you?    Where?  " 

"  I'll  get  the  boat  and  take  you  to  see  the  seals 
on  the  Seven  Sisters  Rocks.  The  sea  is  as  smooth 
as  a — smooth  as  a — smooth  as  a  what's-its-name.  I'll 
be  thinking  of  it  in  a  minit.  Stick  on  your  hat  and 
come  out  with  me." 

"  Some  other  day,  when  Mr.  French  is  at  home.  I 
don't  understand  your  meaning  at  all  when  you  talk 


63  GARRYOWEN 

about  nobody  knowing.  I  never  do  things  that  I  want 
to  hide." 

"  Sure,  that  was  only  my  joke,"  grinned  Mr.  Giveen ; 
"  and  if  you  don't  come  to-day  you'll  never  come  at 
all,  for  it's  the  end  of  the  season,  and  it's  a  hundred 
to  one  you  won't  find  another  day  fit  to  go  till  next 
summer;  and  I'll  show  you  the  big  sea  cave,"  finished 
he,  "  for  the  tide  will  be  out  by  the  time  we've  had 
a  look  at  the  seals.  It's  not  foolin'  you  I  am.  The 
boat's  on  the  beach,  and  it  won't  take  ten  minutes  to 
get  there." 

"  I'll  come  down  and  look  at  the  sea,"  said  Miss 
Grimshaw,  who  could  not  resist  the  appeal  of  the  lovely 
afternoon,  "  if  you'll  wait  five  seconds  till  I  get  my 
hat." 

"  Sure,  I'd  wait  five  hundred  years,"  replied  the 
cousin  of  Mr.  French,  propping  himself  against  the 
house  wall,  where  he  stood  whistling  softly  and  break- 
ing off  every  now  and  then  to  chuckle  to  himself,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  person  who  has  thought  of  a  good 
joke  or  has  got  the  better  of  another  in  a  deal. 

Five  minutes  later,  hearing  the  girl  leaving  the 
house  by  the  front  door,  he  came  round  and  met  her. 

"This  way,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  taking  a  path  that 
led  through  the  kitchen-garden  and  so  round  a  clump 
of  stunted  fir  trees  to  the  break  in  the  cliffs  that  gave 
passage  to  the  strand.  "  Now,  down  by  these  rocks. 
It's  a  powerfully  rough  road,  and  I've  told  Michael 
time  out  of  mind  he  ought  to  have  it  levelled,  but  much 
use  there  is  in  talking  to  him,  and  him  with  his  head 
full  of  horses.  Will  you  take  a  hold  of  my  arm  ?  " 


GARRYOWEN  63 

"  No,  thanks.     I  can  get  on  quite  well  alone." 

"  Well,  step  careful.  Musha,  but  I  was  nearly 
down  then  myself.  Do  you  know  the  name  they  give 
tliis  crack  in  the  cliffs  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  It's  the  Devil's  Keyhole." 

"  Why  do  they  call  it  that?  " 

"  Why,  faith,  you'll  know  that  when  you  hear  the 
wind  blowing  through  it  in  winter.  It  screeches  so 
you  can  hear  it  at  Drumboyne.  Do  you  know  that  I 
live  at  Drumboyne  ?  " 

"  That's  the  village  between  here  and  Cloyne  is  it 
not?  " 

"  That's  it.  But  do  you  know  where  I  live  in  Drum- 
boyne?" 

«  No." 

"  Well,  now,  by  any  chance,  did  you  see  a  bungalow 
on  the  right  after  you  left  Drumboyne,  as  you  were 
driving  here  that  day  on  the  car  with  the  young  chap 
—Mr.  What's-his-name?  " 

"  Dashwood.    Yes,  I  did  see  a  bungalow." 

"  That's  mine,"  said  Mr.  Giveen  with  a  sigh.  "  As 
nice  a  house  as  there  is  in  the  country,  if  it  wasn't  that 
I  was  all  alone  in  it." 

'*  Don't  you  keep  a  servant  ?  " 

"  A  servant !  Sure,  of  course  I  keep  a  servant — 
two.  But  it  wasn't  a  servant  I  was  meaning.  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  I  was  meaning?" 

"  I'm  not  much  interested  in  other  people's  affairs," 
said  Miss  Grimshaw  hurriedly.  "  Ah !  there's  the  sea 
at  last." 


64  GARRYOWEN 

A  turn  of  the  cleft  had  suddenly  disclosed  the  great 
[Atlantic  Ocean. 

Blue  and  smooth  as  satin,  it  came  glassing  in,  break- 
ing gently  over  and  around  the  rocks — huge,  black 
rocks,  shaggy  with  seaweed,  holding  among  them  pools 
where  at  low  tides  you  would  find  rock  bass,  lobsters, 
and  crabs. 

In  winter,  during  the  storms,  this  place  was  tremen- 
dous and  white  with  flying  foam,  the  waves  bursting 
to  the  very  cliff's  base,  the  echoes  shouting  back  the 
roar  of  the  breakers,  the  breakiers  thundering  and 
storming  at  the  echoes,  and  over  all  the  wind  making 
a  bugle  of  the  Devil's  Keyhole;  but  to-day  nothing 
could  be  more  peaceful,  and  the  whisper  of  the  low 
tide  waves  seething  in  amidst  the  rocks  was  a  lullaby 
to  rock  a  babe  to  sleep. 

Just  here,  protected  by  the  rocks,  lay  a  tiny  cove 
where  French  kept  his  boat,  which  he  used  for  fishing 
and  seal  shooting.  And  here  to-day,  on  a  rock  beside 
the  boat,  which  was  half  water-borne,  they  found 
Doolan,  the  man  who  looked  after  the  garden  and  hens 
and  did  odd  jobs,  among  which  was  the  duty  of  keeping 
the  boat  in  order  and  looking  after  the  fishing  tackle. 

"What  a  jolly  little  boat!"  said  the  girl,  resting 
her  hand  on  the  thwart  of  the  sturdy  little  white- 
painted  dinghy.  **  Do  you  go  fishing  in  this  ?  " 

"  Michael  does,"  replied  Mr.  Giveen,  "  but  I'm  no 
fisherman.  Doolan,  isn't  the  sea  smooth  enough  to 
take  the  young  lady  for  a  row?  " 

He  shouted  the  words  into  the  ear  of  the  old  weather- 
beaten  man,  who  was  as  deaf  as  a  post. 


GARRYOWEN  65 

"  Say  smooth  enough  to  take  the  young  lady  for  a 
row  ?  "  replied  Doolan  in  a  creaky  voice  that  seemed 
to  come  from  a  distance.  "  And  what  smoother  would 
you  want  it,  Mr.  Dick?  Say  smooth  enough  to  take 
the  young  lady  for  a  row?  Sure,  it's  more  like  ile 
than  say  water,  it  is  to-day.  Is  this  the  young  lady 
you  tould  me  you  were  going  to  take  to  say  the 
sales?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  any  seals,"  cut  in  Miss 
Grimshaw.  "  I  only  came  down  to  look  at  the 
sea." 

"  There  you  are !  "  burst  out  Mr.  Giveen,  like  a  child 
in  a  temper.  "  After  I  get  the  boat  ready  for  you, 
thinking  to  give  you  a  bit  of  pleasure,  and  take 
Doolan  away  from  his  work  and  all,  and  now  you 
won't  go ! " 

"  But  I  said  I  wouldn't  go ! "  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  You  didn't." 

"  I  did  " — searching  her  memory — "  at  least,  I 
didn't  say  I  would  go." 

"  Well,  say  you  will  go  now,  and  into  the  boat  with 
you." 

"I  won't!" 

"  Well,  then,  all  the  fun's  spoiled,"  said  Mr.  Giveen, 
"  and  it's  a  fool  you've  been  making  of  me.  Sure, 
it's  hundreds  of  girls  I've  taken  out  to  see  the  caves, 
and  never  one  of  them  afraid  but  you." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  beginning 
to  waver,  "  and  I  don't  want  to  spoil  your  fun.  How 
long  would  it  take  us  to  see  the  caves  ?  " 

**  Not  more  than  an  hour  or  two — less  maybe." 


66  GARRYOWEN 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  suddenly  making  up  her 
mind,  "  I'll  come." 

It  was  a  momentous  decision,  with  far-reaching  ef- 
fects destined  to  touch  all  sorts  of  people  and  things, 
from  Mr.  French  to  Garryowen,  a  decision  which, 
in  the  ensuing  April,  might  have  changed  the  course 
of  racing  events  profoundly. 

So  slender  and  magical  are  the  threads  of  cause 
that  the  fortunes  of  thousands  of  clerks  with  an  in- 
stinct for  racing,  thousands  of  sportsmen,  and  in- 
numerable "  bookies,"  all  were  swept  suddenly  that 
afternoon  into  the  control  of  an  event  so  simple  as  a 
boating  excursion  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland. 

She  stepped  into  the  boat,  and  took  her  seat  in  the 
stern.  Mr.  Giveen  and  Doolan  pushed  the  little  craft 
off,  and  just  as  she  was  water  borne  Mr.  Giveen 
tumbled  in  over  the  bow,  seized  a  scull,  and  pulled 
her  into  deep  water. 

The  rocks  made  a  tiny  natural  harbour,  where  the 
dinghy  floated  with  scarcely  a  movement  while  the 
oarsman  got  out  both  sculls. 

"  Isn't  he  coming  with  us? "  asked  Miss  Grim- 
shaw. 

"Who?" 

"  The  old  man — Doolan — what's  his  name?  " 

"  Sure,  what  would  we  be  bothered  taking  him  for?  " 
replied  the  other,  turning  the  boat's  nose  and  sculling 
her  with  a  few  powerful  strokes  to  the  creek's  mouth, 
where  the  incoming  swell  lifted  her  with  a  buoyant  and 
balloon-like  motion  that  brought  a  sickening  sense 
of  insecurity  to  the  heart  of  the  girl. 


GARRYOWEN  67 

"  Well,  I  thought  he  was  coming  with  us,  or  I  would 
not  have  got  in." 

"  Well,  you're  in  now,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  *'  and 
there's  no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk." 

He  had  taken  his  hat  off,  and  his  bald  head  shone 
in  the  sun.  Snow-white  gulls  were  flying  in  the  blue 
overhead,  the  profound  and  glassy  swell,  which  was 
scarcely  noticeable  from  the  shore,  out  here  made  vales 
and  hills  of  water,  long  green  slopes  in  which  the  sea- 
weed floated  like  mermaids'  hair. 

Far  out  now  the  loveliness  of  the  scene  around  her 
made  the  girl  forget  for  a  moment  her  sense  of  inse- 
curity. The  whole  beauty  and  warmth  of  summer 
seemed  gathered  into  that  September  afternoon,  and 
the  coast  showed  itself  league  upon  league,  vast  cliff 
and  silent  strand,  snowed  with  seagulls,  terns,  guille- 
mots, and  fading  away  twenty  miles  to  the  north  and 
twenty  miles  to  the  south  in  the  haze  and  the  blue- 
ness  of  the  summer  sky. 

The  great  silence,  the  vast  distances,  the  happy  blue 
of  sea  and  sky,  the  voicelessness  of  that  tremendous 
coast — all  these  cast  the  mind  of  the  gazer  into  a 
trance  in  which  the  soul  responded  for  a  moment  to 
that  mystery  of  mysteries,  the  call  of  distance. 

"  There's  the  Seven  Sisters,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  rest- 
ing his  oars  and  pointing  away  to  the  north,  where  the 
peaked  rocks  stood  from  the  sea,  cutting  the  sky  with 
their  sharp  angles  and  making  froth  of  the  swell  with 
their  spurs. 

Broad  ledges  of  rock  occurred  here  and  there  at 
their  base,  and  on  these  ledges  the  seals  on  an  afternoon 


68  GARRYOWEN 

like  this  would  be  sunning  themselves,  watching  with 
liquid  human  eyes  the  surging  froth,  and  ready  to 
dive  fathoms  deep  at  the  approach  of  man. 

Miss  Grimshaw,  coming  back  from  her  reverie,  heard 
borne  on  the  breeze,  which  was  blowing  from  the  north, 
the  faint  crying  of  the  gulls  round  the  rocks.  It  was 
the  voices  of  the  Seven  Sisters  for  ever  lamenting,  blue 
weather  or  grey,  calm  or  storm. 

*'  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Wherever  you  please,"  said  he.  "  If  we  were  to 
go  on  as  we're  going  now,  do  you  know  where  we'd 
land?" 

"  No." 

"  America.  How'd  you  like  to  go  to  America  with 
me?  Say  the  word  now,"  went  on  Mr.  Giveen,  with 
a  jocularity  that  was  quite  lost  on  his  companion. 
"  Say  the  word,  and  on  we'll  go." 

"  Turn  the  boat  round,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  sud- 
denly and  with  decision.  "  We  are  too  far  out.  Row 
back.  I  want  to  go  home." 

"  And  how  about  the  seals?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  them.     Go  back ! " 

"Well  now,  listen  to  me.  Do  you  see  over  there, 
behind  us,  that  black  hole  in  the  cliffs,  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile,  or  maybe  less,  from  the  Devil's  Key- 
hole?" 

"Which?     Where?     Oh,  that!     Yes." 

"Well,  that's  the  big  sea  cave  that  everyone  goes 
to  see.  Sure,  you  haven't  seen  Ireland  at  all  till  you've 
been  in  the  Devil's  Kitchen — that's  the  name  of  it. 
Shall  I  row  you  there?  " 


GARRYOWEN  69 

"  Yes,  anywhere,  so  long  as  we  get  close  to  the 
shore.  It  frightens  me  out  here." 

"  Sure,  what  call  have  you  to  be  afraid  when  I'm 
with  you?"  asked  Mr.  Giveen  in  a  tender  tone  of 
voice,  turning  the  boat's  head  and  making  for  the 
desired  shore. 

"  I  don't  know.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else. 
Why  do  they  call  it  the  Devil's  Kitchen?  " 

"  Faith,  you  wouldn't  ask  that  if  you  heard  the 
hullabaloo  that  comes  out  of  it  in  the  big  storms. 
You'd  think,  by  the  frying  and  the  boiling,  it  was 
elephants  and  whales  they  were  cooking.  But  in  sum- 
mer it's  as  calm  as  a — calm  as  a — what's-its-name. 
Musha,  I'll  be  remembering  it  in  a  minit." 

Mr.  Giveen  grumbled  to  himself  in  thought  as  he 
lay  to  his  oars.  Sometimes  the  brogue  of  the  com- 
mon people  with  whom  he  had  collogued  from  boyhood, 
and  which  underlay  his  cultivated  speech  as  a  stratum 
of  rock  underlies  arable  land,  would  crop  up  thick  and 
strong,  especially  when  he  was  communing  with  him- 
self, as  now,  hunting  for  a  metaphor  to  express  the 
sea's  calmness. 

Miss  Grimshaw,  passionately  anxious  to  be  on  land 
again,  was  not  the  less  so  as  she  watched  him  mut- 
tering and  mouthing  and  talking  to  himself.  She  had 
now  been  contemplating  him  at  close  quarters  in  the 
open  light  of  day  for  a  considerable  time,  and  her 
study  of  him  did  not  improve  her  opinion  of  him,  in 
fact,  she  was  beginning  to  perceive  that  in  Mr.  Giveen 
there  was  something  more  than  a  harmless  gentle- 
man rather  soft  and  with  a  passion  for  flirtation. 


70  GARRYOWEN 

She  saw,  or  thought  she  could  see,  behind  the  Sunny 
Jim  expression,  behind  the  jocularity  and  buffoonery 
and  soft  stupidity  which  made  him  sometimes  mildly 
amusing  and  sometimes  acutely  irritating,  a  malignant 
something,  a  spirit  vicious  and  little,  a  spirit  that 
would  do  a  nasty  turn  for  a  man  rather  than  a  nice 
one,  and  perhaps  even  a  cruel  act  on  occasion.  What- 
ever this  spirit  might  be,  it  was  little — a  thing  more 
to  dislike  than  fear. 

They  were  now  in  close  to  the  cliffs,  and  the  en- 
trance to  the  Devil's  Kitchen  loomed  large — a  semi- 
circular arch  beneath  which  the  green  water  flooded, 
washing  the  basalt  pillars  with  a  whispering  sound 
which  came  distinctly  to  the  boat.  The  cliff  above 
stretched  up,  immense,  and  the  crying  of  the  cor- 
morants filled  the  air  and  filled  the  echoes. 

Wheeling  about  the  rocks  away  up,  where  in  the 
breeding  season  they  had  their  nests,  they  seemed  to 
resent  the  approach  of  the  boat.  On  a  ledge  of  rock 
near  the  cove  mouth  something  dark  moved  swiftly 
and  then  splashed  into  the  sea  and  was  free. 

It  was  a  seal. 

"  I'll  take  you  into  the  cave  to  have  a  look  at  it," 
cried  Mr.  Giveen,  raising  his  voice  to  outshout  the 
cormorants.  "  You  needn't  be  a  bit  afraid.  The 
devil's  not  here  to-day — it's  too  fine  weather  for  him." 

"  Don't  go  far  in,"  cried  Miss  Grimshaw,  and  as 
she  spoke  the  words  the  boat,  urged  by  the  rower, 
passed  into  the  gloom  beneath  the  archway. 

She  saw  the  bottle-green  water  of  the  rising  and 
falling  swell  washing  the  pillars  and  the  walls  from 


GARRYOWEN  71 

which  the  seaweed  hung  in  fathom-long  ribbons;  then 
they  were  in  almost  darkness,  and  as  Mr.  Giveen  rested 
on  his  oars,  she  could  hear  the  water  slobbering  against 
the  walls,  and  from  far  away  in  the  gloom,  every  now 
and  then,  a  bursting  sound  as  the  swell  filled  some 
hole  or  shaft  and  was  spat  out  again. 

After  a  moment  or  two,  her  eyes  becoming  ac- 
customed to  the  darkness,  the  vast  size  of  the  place 
became  apparent.  Far  greater  than  the  inside  of  a 
cathedral,  given  over  to  darkness  and  the  sea,  the 
Devil's  Kitchen  was  certainly  a  place  to  make  one 
pause. 

In  the  storms  of  winter,  when,  like  the  great  mouth 
of  some  giant  fighting  the  waves,  it  roared  and  stormed 
and  spat  out  volumes  of  water,  filled  now  almost  to  its 
roof,  now  blowing  the  sea  out  in  showers  of  spray, 
the  horror  of  it  would  be  for  a  bold  imagination  to 
conceive. 

Even  to-day,  in  its  best  mood,  it  was  not  a  place 
to  linger  in. 

"  Now  I've  brought  you  in,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  his 
voice  finding  echoes  in  the  darkness,  "  and  what  will 
you  give  me  to  bring  you  out?  " 

"  Nothing.  Turn  the  boat.  I  don't  like  the  place. 
Turn  the  boat,  I  say !  " 

She  stamped  on  the  bottom  boards,  and  her  voice 
came  back  to  her  ears  with  a  horrible  cavernous  sound, 
as  did  the  laughter  of  Mr.  Giveen. 

He  turned  the  boat  so  that  she  was  fronting  the 
arch  of  light  at  the  entrance,  but  he  did  not  row 
towards  it.  Instead,  he  began  rocking  the  boat  from 


73  GARRYOWEN 

side  to  side  in  a  boyish  and  larky  way  that  liter- 
ally brought  the  heart  of  Miss  Grimshaw  into  her 
mouth. 

"Stop  it!"  she  cried.  "We'll  be  upset.  Oh,  I'll 
tell  Mr.  French.  Stop  it!  Do,  please — please 
stop  it." 

"Well,  what  will  you  give  me  if  I  stop  it?  Come, 
now,  don't  be  shy.  You  know  what  I  mean.  What 
will  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  Anything  you  like." 

"  Then  we'll  make  it  a  kiss?  " 

"  Yes,  anything !     Only  take  me  out  of  this." 

"Two  kisses?"  asked  Mr.  Giveen,  pulling  in  his 
oars  and  making  to  come  aft. 

"  Twenty.  Only  not  here.  You'll  upset  the  boat. 
Don't  stand  up.  You'll  upset  us." 

"  Well,  when  we  get  back,  then  ?  "  said  the  amorous 
one. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  won't  tell  Michael?  " 

"No,  no,  no!" 

"  On  your  word  of  honour?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Swear  by  all's  blue." 

"  Yes." 

"  But  that's  not  swearing." 

"I  don't  know  what  all's  blue  is.      Ouch!" 

The  boat,  drifting,  had  drifted  up  against  the  wall 
of  the  cave,  and  the  swell,  which  had  a  rise  and  fall 
of  eighteen  inches  or  more,  was  grinding  the  starboard 
thwart  lovingly  against  the  seaweed  and  rock. 


GARRYOWEN  73 

"  I  swear  by  all's  blue,"  shrieked  tbe  girl.  "  Any- 
thing !  Quick !  Push  her  off,  or  we'll  be  over." 

"  Faith,  and  that  Was  a  near  shave,"  said  Mr. 
Giveen,  shoving  the  boat  off  with  an  oar. 

He  got  the  sculls  in  the  rowlocks,  and  a  few  strokes 
brought  them  out  under  the  arch  into  daylight  again. 

"  Mind,  you've  sworn,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  who  evi- 
dently had  a  very  present  and  wholesome  dread  of  his 
cousin,  Michael  French. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  replied  his  charge,  whose 
lips  were  dry,  but  whose  terror  had  now,  on  finding 
herself  in  comparative  safety,  turned  into  burning 
wrath.  "  Don't  speak  to  me,  you  coward !  You — you 
beast— or  I'll  hit  you  with  this." 

A  boat-hook  of  ash  and  phosphor-bronze  lay  at  her 
feet,  and  she  seized  it. 

Mr.  Giveen  eyed  the  boat-hook.  It  did  not  promise 
kisses  on  landing,  but  it  was  a  very  efficient  persuader, 
in  its  way,  to  a  swift  return. 

Now,  Mr.  French,  that  day  after  luncheon,  had  rid- 
den into  Drumboyne  about  some  pigs  he  was  anxious 
to  sell.  He  had  failed  to  come  to  terms  with  the  pig 
merchant,  and  had  returned  out  of  temper. 

In  the  stableyard  he  met  Moriarty. 

"  If  you  plaze,  sorr,"  said  Moriarty,  "  I've  just 
heard  from  Doolan  that  Mr.  Giveen  has  taken  the 
young  lady  out  in  the  boat." 

The  contempt  which  Moriarty  had  for  Mr.  Giveen 
and  the  dislike  were  fully  expressed  in  the  tone  of  his 
words. 


741  GARRYOWEN 

"  D'you  mean  to  say  that  idiotic  fool  has  taken  Miss 
Grimshaw  out  in  the  dinghy?  "  cried  Michael  French, 
letting  himself  down  from  the  saddle. 

"  Yes,  sorr." 

"To  blazes  with  Doolan!  What  the — what  the — 
what  the — did  he  mean  not  telling  me ! " 

"I  don't  know,  sorr.  Here  he  is  himself.  Micky, 
come  here!  The  master  wants  to  speak  wid  you." 

Mr.  Doolan,  who  was  passing  across  the  yard  with 
a  tin  basin  of  fowls'  food — it  had  a  wooden  handle, 
and  he  was  holding  it  by  the  handle — approached,  deaf 
to  what  Moriarty  said,  but  answering  his  gesture. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  letting  Mr.  Giveen  take 
the  young  lady  out  in  the  dinghy  without  telling  me, 
you  old  fool?  "  asked  his  master. 

"  Sure,  he  tould  me  not  to  tell  you,  sorr,"  creaked 
Micky. 

"  To  the  devil  with  you ! "  cried  Mr.  French,  giving 
the  tin  basin  a  kick  that  sent  the  contents  flying  into 
Micky's  face,  spattering  it  with  meal  and  soaked  bread 
and  finely  chopped  bits  of  meat  till  it  looked  like 
a  new  form  of  pudding.  "  Off  with  you,  and  clean 
your  face,  and  not  another  word  out  of  you,  or  I'll 
send  you  flying  after  the  basin.  Come  on  with  me, 
Moriarty,  down  to  the  cove,  till  we  see  if  we  can  get 
sight  of  them." 

"Think  of  the  fool  letting  the  girl  go  out  with 
that  egg-headed  ass  of  a  Dick ! "  grumbled  French, 
half  to  himself  and  half  to  Moriarty,  as  he  made  down 
the  Devil's  Keyhole,  followed  by  the  other.  "  He's  been 
hanging  after  her  for  the  last  week,  popping  in  at  all 


GARRYOWEN  75 

hours  of  the  day,  and  as  sure  as  he  gets  a  girl  into 
the  boat  close  with  him,  he's  sure  to  be  making  a  fool 
of  himself,  and  maybe  upsetting  her,  and  the  both  of 
them  drowned.  Not  that  he'd  matter;  not  that  he'd 
drown,  either,  for  that  bladder  of  a  head  of  his  would 
keep  him  afloat.  Do  you  see  any  sight  of  them, 
Moriarty  ?  " 

They  had  reached  the  shore,  and  Moriarty,  stand- 
ing on  a  rock  and  shading  his  eyes,  was  looking  over 
the  sea. 

"  No,  sorr." 

"  Come  on  to  the  cove.  He's  sure  to  come  back 
there,  if  he  ever  comes  back.  If  you  can't  see  them 
from  there,  they  must  have  gone  down  the  coast  to  the 
caves.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Moriarty,  relations  or  no 
relations,  I'm  not  going  to  have  that  chap  hanging 
round  the  premises  any  longer.  He  comes  to  Drum- 
gool,  and  he  sits  and  reads  a  newspaper,  and  he  pre- 
tends to  be  a  fool,  and  all  the  time  he's  taking  every- 
thing in,  and  he  goes  off  and  talks  about  everything 
he  sees,  and  I  believe  it's  him  and  his  talk  that's 
knocked  my  bargain  with  old  Shoveler  over  those  pigs. 
He  heard  me  say  I'd  take  two  pounds  less  than  I  was 
asking  Shoveler,  and  to-day  the  old  chap  was  *  stiff 
as  a  rock.'  " 

"  I  dont  think  he's  any  good  about  the  place, 
sorr,"  said  Moriarty.  "  Yesterday,  when  Andy  was 
giving  Garryowen  his  exercise  on  the  four-mile  track, 
there  he  was,  pottin'  about  with  his  eye  on  the  horse. 
You  know,  sorr,  Andy  has  no  likin'  for  him,  and  as 
Andy  was  passin'  the  big  scrub,  there  was  Misther 


76  GARRYOWEN 

Giveen,  and  he  up  and  calls  to  Andy,  '  That's  a  likely 
colt,'  says  he,  *  and  is  me  cousin  thinldn'  of  runnin' 
him  next  year? '  he  says." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Garryowen's  owner,  taking 
his  seat  on  a  rock.  "  I  hope  Andy  didn't  split  ?  " 

"Split,  sorr!"  *  To  h wid  you,'  says  Andy 

and  on  he  goes,  and  Buck  Slane,  who  was  up  on  the 
Cat,  and  be  the  same  token,  sorr,  Garryowen  can  give 
the  Cat  two  furlongs  in  a  mile  and  lather  him.  Buck 
says  the  black  blood  come  in  his  face,  and  he  shuck 
the  stick  he  was  holdin'  in  his  hand  after  Andy  and 
the  colt  as  if  he'd  like  to  lay  it  on  thim." 

"  Well,  I'll  lay  a  stick  on  him,"  said  French,  "  if  he 
comes  round  asking  his  questions.  Moriarty,  only  you 
and  me  and  the  young  lady — she's  safe — and  Buck 
Slane — and  he's  safe — know  what  we're  going  to  do 
with  Garryowen,  and  where  we're  going  to  run  him. 
If  we  want  to  keep  him  dark,  we  mustn't  have  fellows 
poking  their  noses  about  the  place." 

"  That  young  gintleman  from  over  the  wather,  sorr, 
is  he  safe? 

"  Mr.  Dashwood  ?  Yes,  he's  a  gentleman.  Even 
so,  I  did  not  tell  him  anything  about  it.  He  saw  the 
colt,  and,  by  gad!  didn't  he  admire  him.  But  I  said 
nothing  of  what  I  was  going  to  do  with  him." 

"  Here  they  are,  sorr,"  cried  Moriarty,  who  was 
standing  up,  and  so  had  a  better  view  of  the  sea. 

Mr.  French  rose  to  his  feet. 

The  dinghy  was  rounding  the  rocks.  Mr.  Giveen, 
at  the  sculls,  was  evidently  remonstrating  with  the 
girl,  who,  seeing  help  at  hand,  and  vengeance  in  the 


GARRYOWEN  77 

forms  of  the  two  men  on  the  beach,  was  standing  up 
in  the  stern  of  the  boat — at  least,  half  standing  up — 
now  almost  erect,  now  crouched  and  clutching  the 
thwart,  she  seemed  ready  to  jump  on  the  rocks  they 
were  passing — to  jump  anywhere  so  long  as  she  got 
free  of  the  boat  and  her  companion. 

One  might  have  thought  that  fear  was  impelling 
her.  It  was  not  fear,  however,  but  anger  and 
irritation. 

French  and  Moriarty  rushed  into  the  water  up  to 
their  knees,  seized  the  dinghy  on  either  side  of  the 
bow,  and  ran  her  up  on  the  sand,  while  Mr.  Giveen, 
with  his  coat  in  his  hand  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  tumbled  over  the  side  and  made  as  if  to  make 
off. 

"Stop  him!"  cried  the  girl.  "He's  insulted  me! 
He  has  nearly  drowned  me!  He  frightened  me  into 
swearing  I  wouldn't  tell ! " 

"  I  didn't,"  cried  Mr.  Giveen,  now  in  the  powerful 
grasp  of  his  cousin.  "  It  wasn't  my  fault.  Let  loose 
of  me.  Let  up,  or  I'll  have  the  law  of  you !  " 

"  Didn't  you?  "  replied  French,  who  had  caught  his 
kinsman  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  was  holding  him 
from  behind,  shaking  him  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat, 
"  we'll  soon  see  that.  Moriarty,  run  for  a  policeman. 
Take  a  horse  and  go  for  a  constable  at  Drumboyne. 
Well,  then,  what  do  you  mean,  eh? — what  do  you  mean, 
eh? — you  blackguard,  with  your  philandering?  You 
bubble-headed,  chuckle-headed  son  of  a  black  sweep, 
you!  Call  yourself  an  Irish  gentleman!  Insulting  a 
lady!  Miss  Grimshaw,  say  the  word,  and  I'll  stick 


78  GARRYOWEN 

the  ugly  head  of  him  in  the  water  and  drown 
him!" 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  the  girl,  taking  the  words  literally. 
"  Perhaps  he  didn't  mean  it.  I  don't  think  he  is  quite 
right.  He  only  wanted  to  kiss  me.  He  rocked  the 
boat.  Perhaps  it  was  only  in  fun." 

"  Now  listen  to  me,"  cried  French,  accentuating 
every  second  word  with  a  shake,  "  if  I  ever  catch  you 
within  five  miles  of  Drumgool  again  I'll  give  you  a 
lambasting  you  won't  get  over  in  a  month.  That's 
my  last  word  to  you.  Off  you  go !  " 

The  last  words  were  followed  by  a  most  explicit  kick 
that  sent  Mr.  Giveen  racing  and  running  across  the 
bit  of  sand  till  he  reached  the  rocks,  over  which  he 
scrambled,  making  record  time  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Devil's  Keyhole.  Near  that  spot  he  turned  and  shook 
his  fist  at  his  kinsman. 

"  I'll  be  even  with  you  yet,  Mick  French !  "  cried  Mr. 
Giveen. 

"  Away  with  you ! "  replied  the  threatened  one,  mak- 
ing as  if  to  run  after  him,  at  which  the  figure  of  Mr. 
Giveen  vanished  into  the  Devil's  Keyhole  as  a  rat  van- 
ishes up  a  drain. 

French  burst  into  a  laugh,  in  which  Miss  Grimshaw 
joined. 

"  Now  he'll  be  your  enemy,"  said  the  girl  as 
Moriarty  flung  the  sculls  over  his  shoulder  and  they 
prepared  to  return  to  the  house. 

"  Much  I  care ! "  replied  the  owner  of  Garryowen. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE  first  and  most  pressing  necessity  of  a  woman's 
life  is — what?  Love?  No,  a  home.  A  home  implies 
love  and  everything  in  life  worth  having. 

A  girl  without  a  home  and  without  relations  is  the 
loneliest  thing  on  earth,  simply  because  she  is  a  woman, 
and  nothing  has  such  a  capacity  for  loneliness  as  a 
woman. 

Give  her  anything  in  the  way  of  a  tie,  and  she  will 
crystallise  on  to  it  and  take  it  to  heart,  just  as  the 
sugar  in  a  solution  of  barley-sugar  takes  the  string. 

So  it  came  about  that  Violet  Grimshaw  found  her- 
self, in  less  than  three  weeks  after  her  arrival  at  Drum- 
gool,  not  only  acclimatised  to  her  new  surroundings, 
but  literally  one  of  the  family.  She  had  caught  on  to 
them,  and  they  had  caught  on  to  her.  French,  with 
that  charming  easiness  which  one  finds  rarely  nowa- 
days, except  in  that  fast  vanishing  individual,  the  real 
old  Irish  gentleman,  had  from  the  first  treated  her 
as  though  he  had  known  her  for  years.  Guessing,  with 
the  sure  intuition  of  the  irresponsible,  the  level-headed- 
ness  and  worth  behind  her  prettiness,  he  now  talked 
to  her  about  his  most  intimate  affairs,  both  financial 
and  family. 

In  him  and  in  the  other  denizens  of  Drumgool  was 
brought  home  to  her  the  power  of  the  Celtic  nature  to 
imagine  things  and  take  them  for  granted. 

"  Now,  where's  me  colander?  "  Mrs.  Driscoll  would 
79 


80  GARRYOWEN 

say  (as,  for  instance,  in  a  dialogue  which  reached  the 
girl  one  afternoon  with  a  whiff  of  kitchen-scented  air 
through  a  swing-door  left  open).  "Where's  me 
colander?  It's  that  black  baste  of  a  Doolan.  I  b'lave 
he's  taken  it  to  feed  the  chickens.  I'll  tie  a  dish-cloth 
to  his  tail  if  he  comes  into  me  kitchen  takin'  me  colan- 
ders! Doolan!  Foolan!  Come  here  wid  ye,  and 
bring  me  me  colander.  I'll  tell  the  masther  on  you 
for  takin'  me  things.  You  haven't  got  it?  May 
Heaven  forgive  you,  but  I  saw  you  with  the  two  eyes 
in  me  head,  and  it  in  your  hand !  It's  forenint  me 
nose?  Which  nose?  Oh,  glory  be  to  Heaven!  so  it  is. 
Now,  out  of  me  kitchen  wid  you,  and  don't  be  littherin' 
me  floor  with  your  dirty  boots !  " 

The  connection  of  Doolan  with  the  missing  colander 
was  based  on  a  pure  assumption. 

Just  so  French  had  adorned  the  portrait  of  Miss 
Grimshaw,  which  he  had  painted  in  his  own  mind,  with 
spectacles.  And  he  would  have  sworn  to  those  spec- 
tacles in  a  court  of  law. 

Just  so,  by  extension,  he  saw  Garryowen  passing 
the  winning-post  despite  all  the  obstacles  in  his  path. 
But  it  was  the  case  of  Effie  that  brought  home  to  Miss 
Grimshaw  this  trait  with  full  force. 

"  Mr.  French,"  said  she  one  morning,  entering  the 
sitting-room  where  he  was  writing  letters,  "  do  you 
know  Effie  can  walk?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — what  did  you  say?  "  asked 
Mr.  French,  dropping  his  pen  and  turning  in  his  chair. 

"  The  child's  not  a  cripple  at  all.  She  can  walk 
as  well  as  I  can." 


GARRYOWEN  81 

"  Walk !  Why,  she's  been  a  cripple  for  years ! 
Walk !  Why,  Mrs.  Driscoll  never  lets  her  on  her  feet 
by  any  chance !  " 

"  Yes,  but  when  she's  alone  she  runs  about  the  room, 
and  she's  as  sound  on  her  legs  as  I  am." 

"  But  Dr.  O'Malley  said  with  his  own  mouth  she 
was  a  cripple  for  life ! " 

"  How  long  ago  was  that?  " 

"  Four  years." 

"Has  he  seen  her  lately?" 

"  Seen  her  lately?  Why,  he's  been  in  his  coffin 
three  years  come  next  October ! " 

"  Have  you  had  no  other  doctor  to  see  her?  " 

"  Sure,  there's  no  one  else  but  Rafferty  at  Cloyne, 
and  he's  a  fool — and  she  won't  see  doctors ;  she  says 
they  are  no  use  to  her," 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I've  seen  her  walking. 
She  can  run,  and  she  tells  me  she  has  been  able  to  for 
years,  only  no  one  will  believe  her.  Whenever  they 
see  her  on  her  feet  she  says  they  pop  her  back  on  the 
couch.  The  poor  child  seems  to  have  become  so  hope- 
less of  making  any  one  believe  her  that  she  has  sub- 
mitted to  her  fate.  I  believe  she  half  believes  herself 
that  she  oughtn't  to  walk,  that  it's  a  sort  of  sin;  she 
does  it  more  out  of  perversity  than  anything  else. 
She's  been  coddled  into  invalidhood,  and  I'm  going  to 
coddle  her  out  of  it,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw.  "  And  if 
you  will  come  upstairs  with  me  now,  I'll  show  you  that 
she's  as  firm  on  her  legs  as  you  are  yourself." 

They  went  upstairs.  As  Miss  Grimshaw  turned  the 
handle  of  the  door  of  Effie's  room  a  scuffling  noise  was 


82  GARRYOWEN 

heard,  and  when  they  entered,  the  child  was  sitting  up 
on  the  couch,  flushed  and  bright-eyed. 

"Why,  what's  all  this,  Effie?"  cried  her  father. 
"  What's  all  this  I've  been  hearing  about  your  run- 
ning about  the  room?  Stick  your  legs  out,  and  let  me 
see  you  do  it." 

Effie  grinned. 

"  I  will,"  said  she,  "  if  you  promise  not  to  tell  Mrs. 
Driscoll." 

For  three  years  the  unfortunate  child  had  been  suf- 
fering from  no  other  disease  but  Mrs.  Driscoll's  vivid 
imagination  and  the  firm  belief  held  by  her  that  the 
child's  back  would  "  snap  in  two  "  if  she  stood  on  her 
legs.  Vivid  and  vital,  this  belief,  like  some  people's 
faith,  refused  to  listen  to  suggestion  or  criticism. 

"  I  won't  tell,"  said  Effie's  father.  «  Up  with  you 
and  let's  see  you  on  your  pins." 

"  Now,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  when  the  evolutions 
were  over,  and  Miss  French  had  demonstrated  her 
soundness  in  wind  and  limb  to  the  full  satisfaction  of 
her  sire,  "  what  do  you  think  of  that?  " 

"  But  how  did  you  find  it  out?  "  asked  the  astonished 
man. 

"  She  told  me  it  as  a  secret." 

"  But  why  didn't  she  tell  anyone  else,  with  a  whole 
houseful  of  people  to  tell,  this  three  years  and  more?  " 

"  She  did,  but  no  one  would  believe  her — would  they, 
Effie?" 

"  No,"  replied  Effie. 

"  You  told  Mrs.  Driscoll  over  and  over  again  you 
could  walk,  and  what  did  she  say  to  you?  " 


GARRYOWEN  83 

"  She  told  me  to  *  hold  my  whisht  and  not  to  be 
talking  nonsense.'  She  said  she'd  give  me  to  the  black 
man  that  lives  in  the  oven  if  I  put  a  foot  to  the  ground, 
and  I  told  papa  I  was  all  right,  and  could  walk,  if 
they'd  let  me,  and  he  only  laughed  and  told  me  not 
to  be  getting  ideas  in  my  head." 

"  Faith,  and  that's  the  truth,"  said  her  papa.  "  I 
thought  it  was  only  her  fancies." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  I  examined  her  back 
this  morning,  and  there  is  nothing  wrong  with  it.  Her 
legs  are  all  right.  She's  in  good  health.  Well,  where's 
your  invalid?  " 

"  Faith,  I  don't  know,"  said  French.  "  This  beats 
Bannagher." 

He  went  to  the  bell  and  pulled  it. 

"  Send  up  Mrs.  Driscoll,"  said  the  master  of  Drum- 
gool.  "  Send  up  Mrs.  Driscoll.  And  what  are  you 
standing  there  with  your  mouth  hanging  open  for?  " 

"  Sure,  Miss  Effie,  and  what  are  you  doin'  off  the 
couch?"  cried  Norah,  shaken  out  of  her  respect  for 
her  master  by  the  sight  of  Effie  on  her  legs. 

"  Doing  off  the  couch?  Away  with  you  down,  and 
send  up  Mrs.  Driscoll.  You  and  your  couch !  You've 
been  murdering  the  child  between  you  for  the  last  three 
years  with  your  couches  and  your  coddling.  Off  with 
you!" 

"Don't  be  harsh  to  them,"  said  Effie's  saviour,  as 
Norah  departed  in  search  of  the  housekeeper.  "  They 
did  it  for  the  best." 

Half-an-hour  later,  Mrs.  Driscoll,  with  her  pet  illu- 
sion still  perfectly  unshattered,  returned  to  her  kitchen 


84  GARRYOWEN 

to  conduct  the  preparations  for  dinner,  while  Effie. 
freed  for  ever  from  her  bonds,  sat  on  a  stool  before 
the  nursery  fire,  reading  Mrs.  Brown's  adventures  in 
Paris. 

Miss  Grimshaw,  coming  down  a  little  later,  found 
three  letters  that  had  just  come  by  post  awaiting  her. 
One  was  from  Mr.  Dashwood. 

It  was  a  short  and  rather  gloomy  letter.  He  had 
asked  permission  to  write  to  her,  and  she  had  been 
looking  forward  to  a  letter  from  him,  for  she  liked  him, 
and  his  recollection  formed  a  picture  in  her  mind  pleas- 
ant to  contemplate ;  but  this  short  and  rather  gloomy 
screed  was  so  unlike  him  that  she  at  once  guessed 
something  wrong  in  his  affairs. 

Womanlike,  she  was  not  over  pleased  that  he  should 
permit  his  private  worries  to  take  the  edge  off  his  pen 
when  he  was  writing  to  her,  and  she  determined  to  leave 
the  letter  unanswered. 


CHAPTER    IX 

IT  was  November,  and  it  had  been  raining  for  a  week. 

The  sun  had  vanished,  the  hills  had  vanished,  the 
land  had  all  but  vanished — nothing  remained  but  the 
wind  and  the  rain,  the  rain  and  the  wind. 

Effie's  short  lessons  only  consumed  a  couple  of  hours 
of  each  rain-soaked,  wind-blown  day.  No  one  ever 
came  to  Drumgool  except,  maybe,  a  farmer  now  and 
then  to  see  Mr.  French ;  and  the  long-drawn  "  hoo- 
hoo  "  of  the  wind  through  the  Devil's  Keyhole,  the  rat- 
tling of  windows  fighting  with  the  wind,  and  the  tune 
of  wastepipes  emptying  into  over-full  waterbutts  were 
beginning  to  prey  upon  Miss  Grimshaw's  nerves. 

Even  Mr.  Giveen  would  have  been  a  distraction  these 
times ;  but  Mr.  Giveen  was  now  at  open  enmity  with 
his  kinsman,  and  spoiling  with  all  the  bitterness  of  his 
petty  nature  to  do  him  an  injury. 

And  Giveen  was  not  French's  only  enemy  just  now. 
The  United  Irish  League  was  against  him.  He  had 
let  farms  on  the  eleven  months'  system,  and  he  had 
let  farms  for  grazing,  two  high  offences  in  the  eyes  of 
the  league. 

"  The  time  has  come  to  put  an  end  to  the  big  graz- 
ing ranches  and  to  plant  the  people  on  the  soil,"  says 
the  league,  as  though  the  people  were  seed  potatoes. 
"  You  mustn't  take  a  farm  on  an  eleven-month  agree- 
ment," goes  on  this  Areopagus  of  plunderers  and 

85 


86  GARRYOWEN 

short-sighted  patriots.  "  For,"  continues  the  league, 
"  if  you  do,  we'll  drive  the  cattle  off  your  land  with 
hazel  sticks,  and  on  you  we  will  commit  every  dirty 
outrage  that  the  black  heart  of  a  low-down  Irishman 
can  invint,  Begob !  "  And  they  do. 

The  law  of  the  league  is  the  law  of  the  west  of  Ire- 
land. King  Edward  does  not  reign  there  in  the  least. 

"  Come  down  here,"  cried  Mr.  French  one  morning, 
standing  in  the  hall  and  calling  up  the  stairs,  where 
he  had  caught  the  flutter  of  Miss  Grimshaw's  skirt. 
"  Come  down  here  till  I  show  you  something  you've 
never  seen  before.  Come  in  here." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  small  room,  where  he  received 
farmers  and  tenants,  and  there,  sitting  on  a  chair,  was 
an  old  man  with  a  face  furrowed  like  a  ploughed  field. 
His  battered  old  hat  was  on  the  floor,  and  he  held  in 
his  hand  two  cows'  tails,  and  there  he  sat,  purblind, 
and  twisting  the  tails  in  his  hands,  a  living  picture  of 
age  and  poverty  and  affliction. 

"  Don't  get  up,  Ryan.  Sit  you  down  where  you 
are,"  said  French,  "  and  tell  the  young  lady  what  you 
have  in  your  hands." 

"  Sure,  they're  me  cows'  tails,"  piped  the  old  fellow, 
like  a  child  saying  a  lesson.  "  Me  beautiful  cows' 
tails,  that  the  blackguards  chopped  off  wid  a  knife — 
divil  mend  them ! — and  I  lyin'  in  bed  in  the  grey  of  the 
marnin'.  *  Listen,'  I  says  to  me  wife.  *  What  ails 
the  crathurs  and  they  boohooin'  like  that  ? '  '  Get  up 
an'  see,'  she  says.  And  up  I  gets,  and  slips  on  me 
breeches  and  coat,  and  out  I  goes,  and  finds  thim 
hangin'  over  the  rail,  dhrippin'  wid  blood,  and  they 


GARRYOWEN  87 

cut  off  wid  a  knife.  Oh,  the  blackguards,  to  chop  their 
knives  into  the  poor  innocent  crathurs,  and  lave  me 
widout  a  cow,  and  the  rint  comin'  due,  and  me  wife  sick 
in  her  bed,  and  all.  Sure,  what  way  is  that  to  be 
thratin'  a  man  just  bekase  I  niver  answered  their  diviPs 
notice  to  quit?  " 

"  Cut  off  his  cows'  tails  ?  "  cried  the  girl  in  horror. 
"Were  they  alive?" 

"  Yes,"  said  French.  "  It's  little  those  ruffians  care 
for  an  animal — or  a  man  either." 

"  Oh,  but  what  a  cruel,  sneaking  thing  to  do !  Why 
did  they  do  it?" 

"  Because  he  would  not  give  up  his  bit  of  a  farm. 
And  they  call  themselves  Irishmen;  and  the  worst  of 
the  business  is,  they  are.  Well,  Ryan,  keep  your  seat, 
and  I'll  send  you  in  a  drop  of  whisky.  And  don't 
bother  about  the  rent — I  expect  the  next  thing  will 
be  they'll  visit  me.  Faith,  and  they'll  get  a  warm  re- 
ception if  they  do !  " 

Mr.  French  left  the  room,  followed  by  the  girl. 
"  That's  the  sort  of  thing  that's  been  the  ruin  of  Ire- 
land," said  he,  as  he  pulled  the  sitting-room  bell  for 
Norah.  "  Talk  of  landlords !  Good  heavens !  when 
was  there  ever  a  landlord  would  cut  a  cow's  tail  off? 
When  was  there  ever  a  landlord  would  mutilate  horses? 
Did  ye  ever  hear  of  a  landlord  firing  a  gun  through  the 
window  of  a  house  where  a  lonely  old  woman  was  and 
nearly  blow  the  roof  off  her  skull,  all  because  her  son 
refused  to  *  strip  his  farm,'  as  they  call  it?  And  that 
was  done  ten  miles  from  here  a  month  before  you  came. 
Norah,  get  the  whisky  and  give  old  Ryan  a  glassful 


88  GARRYOWEN 

and  a  bite  to  eat.  He's  sitting  in  there  in  the  little 
study,  with  his  two  cow's  tails,  those  blackguards  have 
cut  off,  in  his  hand.  Take  him  into  the  kitchen  and  dry 
him,  and  let  him  sit  by  the  fire;  and  tell  Mrs.  Driscoll 
to  give  him  something  for  his  old  wife,  for  she's  sick 
in  bed. 

"Yes,  that's  what  Ireland  has  come  to.  A  lot  of 
poor,  ignorant  people  like  Ryan,  ruled  by  a  syndicate 
of  ruffians,  that  make  their  own  laws  and  don't  care  a 
button  for  the  law  of  God  or  the  law  of  the  land.  It's 
unbelievable,  but  there  it  is.  And  now  they'll  be  going 
for  me.  I've  had  several  anonymous  letters  in  the  last 
month,  threatening  boycotting  or  worse,  if  I  don't 
amend  my  ways.  Much  I  care  for  them!  Look,  the 
rain's  cleared  off.  I'm  going  to  the  meet  of  the  hounds 
at  Drumboyne.  Would  you  care  to  drive  with  me?  If 
you  had  a  riding  habit,  we  might  have  ridden." 

"  But  I  have  a  riding  habit.  It's  pretty  old, 
but " 

"Up  with  you  and  put  it  on,  then,"  said  Mr. 
French ;  "  and  I'll  tell  Moriarty  to  saddle  the  grey 
mare  for  you.  She'll  be  round  at  the  door  in  ten 
minutes." 

Twenty  minutes  later,  Miss  Grimshaw,  in  a  riding 
habit  and  covert  coat,  relic  of  her  money-making  days 
with  Hardmuth,  was  accompanying  Mr.  French  down 
the  drive,  she  on  the  grey  mare,  he  on  a  raw-boned 
hunter  with  a  head  which  had  suggestions  about  it  of 
a  fiddle  and  the  devil. 

She  was  a  good  horsewoman.  In  London,  her  only 
extravagance  had  been  an  early  morning  canter  in  the 


GARRYOWEN  89 

Park  on  a  hired  hack.  It  was  for  this  she  had  bought 
the  habit. 

They  struck  the  road.  It  was  twenty  minutes  past 
nine,  and  as  the  meet  was  at  half-past  ten,  they  had 
plenty  of  time. 

The  clouds  had  ceased  raining,  had  risen  to  an  im- 
mense height,  and  there,  under  the  influence  of  some 
wind  of  the  upper  atmosphere,  had  become  macker- 
elled — a  grey,  peaceful  sky,  showing  here  and  there 
through  a  rift  the  faintest  tinge  of  blue. 

The  air  smelt  of  the  rain  and  the  rain-wet  earth, 
and  the  hills  lay  distinct,  grey,  peaceful,  wonderfully 
clear. 

Nowhere  else  in  the  world  but  in  Ireland  do  you  get 
such  weather  as  this. 

Hennessy,  the  master  of  the  hounds,  lived  at  a  place 
called  Barrington  Court,  seven  miles  south  of  Drum- 
boyne.  He  was  a  young  man,  a  bachelor,  and  a  pretty 
fast  liver;  he  owned  a  good  bit  of  land,  and,  like  every 
other  landowner  in  the  county,  was  pretty  much  under 
the  thumb  of  the  league.  But  he  was,  unlike  French, 
a  diplomat. 

"  That's  Hennessy,"  said  Mr.  French,  when  the 
turning  of  the  road  suddenly  showed  them  the  long, 
straggling  street  of  Drumboyne,  the  market  cross,  the 
hounds,  the  master  and  the  whips,  and  about  two  dozen 
horsemen,  mounted  on  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  nags, 
all  congregated  about  the  cross.  "  We're  just  in  time. 
The  first  meet  of  the  season,  too,  and  a  grand  day  for 
the  scent." 

Violet  Grimshaw,  who  had  never  until  this  seen   a 


90  GARRYOWEN 

meet  of  the  hounds  except  in  the  illustrated  papers, 
looked  before  her  with  interest  not  unmixed  with 
amusement  at  the  crowd  surrounding  the  cross. 

All  sorts  of  rabble  had  gathered  from  north,  south, 
east,  and  west.  Gossoons  without  a  shoe  to  their  feet ; 
chaps  from  "  over  beyant  the  big  bog,"  in  knee- 
breeches  and  armed  with  shillelaghs;  dirty  little  girls 
dragging  younger  sisters  by  the  hand  to  have  a  look 
at  the  "  houn's  " ;  Father  Roche,  from  Cloyne,  who  had 
stopped  to  say  a  cheery  word  to  Hennessy;  Long 
Doolan,  the  rat  catcher,  in  an  old  red  waistcoat ;  Billy 
Sheelan,  of  the  Station  Inn,  the  same  who  had  directed 
Mr.  Dashwood  on  his  fishing  expedition,  and  who,  by 
popular  report,  was  ruining  his  mother  and  "  drinking 
the  inn  dry  " — all  these  and  a  lot  more  were  chatter- 
ing and  laughing,  shouting  one  to  the  other,  and  giv- 
ing advice  to  the  whips,  when  French  and  his  com- 
panion, rounding  the  turn  of  the  road,  made  their 
appearance. 

The  effect  was  magical.  The  talking  and  the  laugh- 
ing ceased.  Men  fell  away  from  one  another,  and  as 
French  rode  up  to  the  master,  three  farmers  who  had 
been  talking  to  him  turned  their  horses  so  that  their 
backs  were  presented  to  the  newcomers. 

By  the  inn  door,  which  was  directly  opposite  the 
cross,  French  perceived  Mr.  Giveen.  Mr.  Giveen  van- 
ished into  the  inn,  but  a  moment  later  his  face  appeared 
at  the  barroom  window,  and  remained  there  during  all 
that  followed. 

"Well,  Hennessy,"  said  the  master  of  Drumgool, 
appearing  to  take  no  notice  of  the  coldness  of  his  re- 


GARRYOWEN  91 

ception,  "  you've  a  fine  day  for  the  first  meet.  Allow 
me  to  introduce  you  to  a  young  lady  who  is  staying 
with  me.  Mr.  Hennessy — Miss  Grimshaw.  And 
where  are  you  going  to  draw  ?  " 

"  Barrington  Scrub,  I  believe,"  replied  Hennessy, 
saluting  the  girl.  "  Yes,  it's  not  a  bad  day.  Do  you 
intend  to  follow?" 

"  No.  We'll  go  to  see  you  draw  the  scrub,  that's 
all.  Why,  there's  Father  Roche!  And  how  are  you 
to-day?  Faith,  it's  younger  you're  looking  every  time 
I  meet  you.  And  why  haven't  I  seen  you  at  Drumgool 
these  months?  "  As  he  turned  to  talk  to  the  priest 
several  of  the  hunt  drew  close  to  Hennessy  and  spoke 
to  him  in  a  low  tone,  but  so  vehemently  that  Violet,  ob- 
serving everything,  overheard  several  of  their  remarks. 

"  Not  a  fut  does  he  follow  the  houn's.  What  do  I 
care  about  him?  Sure,  Giveen  said  he  swore  he'd  fling 
the  whole  of  the  Castle  French  property  into  grazing 
land  to  spite  the  league.  Listen  now,  and  it's  the  last 
time  I'll  say  it.  If  he  goes,  we  stay." 

"  French !  "  said  the  master,  detaching  himself  from 
the  group. 

"  Hullo !  "  replied  Mr.  French. 

"  Just  a  word  with  you." 

He  drew  him  aside. 

"  There's  a  lot  of  bad  blood  here.  It's  not  my  fault, 
but  you  know  these  chaps,  and  they  have  a  down  on 
you,  every  one  of  them,  and  they  say  if  you  follow 
to  the  scrub,  they'll  all  stay  behind.  Now,  don't  get 
waxy.  You  know  it's  not  my  fault,  but  there  it  is." 

French's  eyes  blazed. 


93  GARRYOWEN 

"  Follow  you  to  the  scrub ! "  said  he  in  a  loud,  ring- 
ing voice.  "  Thank  you  for  the  hint,  Dick  Hennessy. 
Follow  you  with  that  pack  of  half-mounted  rat- 
catchers! I  was  going  to  ride  to  the  scrub  to  see  if 
there  was  ever  a  fox  white-livered  enough  to  turn  its 
tail  on  them,  and,  sure,  if  he  did,  he  couldn't  run  for 
laughing.  And,  talking  of  tails,"  said  Mr.  French, 
turning  from  the  master  and  addressing  the  market- 
place, "  if  the  gentleman  who  cut  off  the  tails  of  old 
Ryan's  cows  will  only  step  forward,  I'll  accommodate 
him  with  my  opinion  of  him  here  and  now.  And  it's 
not  the  whip-end  of  my  hunting-crop  I'll  do  it  with, 
either.'' 

No  gentleman  present  was  at  all  desirous  of  being 
accommodated,  for  French  turned  the  scale  at  fourteen 
stone,  all  muscle,  and  he  was  a  match  for  any  two  men 
present. 

He  waited  a  moment.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat  to 
Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  I  must  apologise  to  you,"  he  said,  "  for  losing  my 
temper.  Let  us  on  to  Cloyne,  for  this  is  no  place  for 
a  lady  to  be,  at  all." 

He  touched  the  fiddle-headed  devil  he  was  riding 
with  the  spur,  making  him  plunge  and  scatter  the 
ragamuffins  who  were  hanging  on  the  scene  with  open 
mouths,  and,  cannoning  against  and  nearly  unseating 
one  of  the  "  half-mounted  rat-catchers,"  he  took  the 
road  to  Cloyne,  followed  by  the  girl. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  come  in  clash  with  his 
countrymen ;  the  storm  had  been  brewing  a  long  time, 
but  it  had  burst  at  last.  To  think  that  he,  Michael 


GARRYOWEN  93 

French,  in  his  own  county,  had  been  ordered  not  to 
follow  the  hounds  by  a  herd  of  dirty-fisted  petty  far- 
mers was  a  thought  to  make  his  blood  boil.  Petty 
spite,  needle-sharp — that  was  the  weapon  the  league 
were  using  against  Michael  French  by  day.  In  their 
own  disgusting  language,  he  was  a  "  first  offender." 
Even  yet,  if  he  chose  to  give  in  and  eat  humble  pie 
out  of  the  grimy  hands  of  the  men  who  would  be  his 
masters,  he  might  find  forgiveness.  If  not,  boycotting 
would  follow,  and  who  knows  what  else? 

He  knew  this,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  no  hope 
of  help  from  the  law.  The  police  might  arrest  his 
tormenters  if  they  were  caught  trying  to  do  him  an  in- 
jury; but  the  jury,  if  they  were  tried,  would  be  pretty 
sure  to  let  the  offenders  slip.  And  it  was  a  hundred 
to  one  they  would  never  be  caught,  for  these  people 
are  trained  sneaks ;  no  area  sneak  is  more  soft-footed 
or  cunning  than  the  gentleman  with  the  black  cloth 
mask  and  the  knife,  who  comes  like  a  thief  in  the  night 
to  work  brutal  mutilation  on  cattle. 

Garryowen  was  the  only  thing  he  was  afraid  of; 
but  in  Moriarty  he  had  a  rock  of  strength  to  depend 
upon. 

"  Did  you  see  Dick  Giveen  ?  "  said  he,  as  the  girl 
ranged  alongside  of  him.  "  He's  had  a  finger  in  this 
pie.  Did  you  see  him  at  the  inn  window  with  his  nose 
to  the  pane?  He  knew  I'd  come  to  the  meet,  and  he 
came  to  see  those  chaps  get  the  better  of  me." 

"  They  didn't  get  that,"  said  Violet.  "  They  looked 
like  whipped  puppies  when  you  were  talking  to  them. 
Yes,  I'm  sure  that  man  has  been  doing  you  injury.  I 


94  GARRYOWEN 

heard  one  of  the  farmers  say  to  Mr.  Hennessy  that 
Giveen  had  said  you  would  do  your  best  to  spite  the 
league.  I  wish  I  hadn't  gone  with  him  in  the  boat 
that  day.  If  I  hadn't,  this  would  not  have  occurred." 

"  I  don't  care  for  those  chaps  so  much  as  for  Dick 
Giveen,"  said  he.  "He's  a  bad  man  to  vex.  These 
fools  always  are.  He'll  be  on  my  tracks  now  like 
a  stoat  trying  to  do  me  some  dirty  trick.  He'll  watch 
and  wait.  I  know  him.  But  if  he  comes  within  five 
miles  of  Drumgool,  I'll  put  a  bullet  in  him,  or  my 
name's  not  Michael  French." 

They  rode  on  through  the  grey,  still  day.  Now  and 
again  a  whiff  of  turf  smoke  from  a  cabin  by  the  way 
made  the  air  delicious.  Over  the  black  bog  pitches 
and  wild,  broken  land  a  soft  wind  had  risen,  blowing 
from  the  south,  and  bringing  with  it  the  scent  of  the 
earth,  and  far  ahead  of  them  a  trace  of  smoke  from 
the  chimneys  of  Cloyne  went  up  against  the  back- 
ground of  hills. 

Mr.  French  and  Miss  Grimshaw  stopped  at  the  Sta- 
tion Inn  at  Cloyne,  and  put  the  horses  up.  French 
ordered  some  bread  and  cheese.  "  And  now,"  said  he, 
"  while  they're  getting  it  ready,  would  you  like  to  see 
a  real  old  Irish  cabin?  I'll  take  you  to  see  old  Mrs. 
Moriarty  down  the  road,  and  you  can  amuse  yourself 
talking  to  her  for  a  minute,  while  I  run  in  and  see 
Janes,  my  agent.  Mrs.  Moriarty  is  a  witch,  so  they 
say,  but  she's  true  to  the  Frenches.  She  was  a  kitchen- 
maid  at  Drumgool  in  my  grandfather's  time.  She 
believes  in  fairies  and  leprechauns,  and  all  that  non- 
sense. Here  we  are." 


GARRYOWEN  95 

He  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  cabin  a  hundred  yards 
away  from  the  inn  and  knocked.  Then,  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  he  lifted  the  latch  and  opened  the 
door. 

"  Are  you  there,  Kate  ?  "  cried  he  into  the  dark  in- 
terior of  the  place. 

"  Sure,  and  where  else  would  I  be? "  replied  a 
wheezy  voice.  "Who  are  you,  lettin*  the  draught  in 
on  me?  Oh!  glory  be  to  Heaven!  it's  Mr.  Michael 
himself." 

"  Come  in,"  said  French,  and  the  girl  followed  him 
into  the  one  room  where  Mrs,  Moriarty  kept  herself 
and  her  hens — two  of  them  were  roosting  on  the  rafters 
— and  where  she  was  sitting  now  over  a  bit  of  fire, 
with  her  bonnet  on  to  keep  the  "  cowld "  from  her 
head,  and  a  short  black  pipe  between  her  teeth.  It 
was  an  appalling  place  considered  as  a  human  dwell- 
ing. The  floor  was  of  clay,  the  window  had  only  one 
practicable  pane,  the  rest  were  broken  and  stuffed 
with  rags.  A  heap  of  rags  in  the  corner  did  duty 
for  a  bed.  By  the  fire  and  beside  the  old  lady,  who 
was  sitting  on  a  stool,  a  bantam  hen  brooding  in  the 
warmth  cocked  one  bloodshot  eye  up  at  the  visitors. 

"  I've  brought  a  young  lady  to  see  you,  Kate," 
said  Mr.  French.  "  Talk  to  her  and  tell  her  of  the 
fairies,  for  I'm  going  down  the  road  to  see  Mr.  Janes, 
and  I  won't  be  a  minute,  and  I'll  send  you  a  drop  of 
whisky  from  the  inn  to  warm  your  gizzard  when  I 
get  back." 

"  Sure,  it's  welcome  she  is,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  But  it  isn't  a  seat  I  have  to  ask  her  to  sit  on,  and  I 


96  GARRYOWEN 

stuck  to  this  ould  stool  wid  the  rheumatiz  in  me  legs. 
Get  out  wid  you,  Norah,"  making  a  dive  with  a  bit  of 
stick  at  the  bantam,  which,  taking  the  hint,  fluttered 
into  a  corner,  "  and  make  way  for  the  young  lady. 
You'll  excuse  her,  miss ;  she's  the  only  one  of  siven  I 
brought  up  wid  me  own  hand.  Sure,  it's  not  from 
anywhere  in  these  parts  you've  come  from?" 

She  was  peering  up  from  under  her  bonnet  at  the 
girl's  face,  and  Violet,  fascinated  by  that  terrible  pur- 
blind gaze,  thought  that  she  had  never  seen  tragedy 
written  on  a  human  countenance  so  plainly  as  on  the 
stone-like  mask  which  the  red  glimmer  of  the  turf  fire 
showed  up  to  her  beneath  the  bonnet  of  the  old  woman. 

"  No,"  said  she ;  "  I  come  from  America." 

"  Ochone !  "  cried  Mrs.  Moriarty.  "  Sure,  it's  there 
me  boy  Mike  went  forty  years  ago — forty  years  ago ! 
— and  niver  a  word  or  a  letther  from  him  for  twenty 
long  years.  Maybe  you  never  chanced  to  hear  of  him, 
miss?  He  was  in  the  bricklayin'.  Six-fut-six  he 
stood  widout  his  brogues,  and  the  lovely  red  hair  on 
the  head  of  him  was  curly  as  a  rethraver's  back.  And, 
sure,  what  am  I  talkin'  about?  It's  grey  he'd  be  now. 
Ochone !  afther  all  thim  years !  " 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  never  heard  of  him ;  but 
America  is  a  big  place.  Cheer  up.  You  may  hear  of 
him  yet,  and  here's  something  that  may  bring  you 
luck!" 

She  took  a  shilling  from  the  pocket  of  her  covert 
coat  and  put  it  in  the  hand  of  the  old  woman,  who 
took  it  and  blessed  her,  and  wrapped  it  in  a  scrap  of 
paper. 


GARRYOWEN  97 

"  The  blessin's  of  God  on  you,  and  may  the  divil 
bile  his  pot  wid  the  man  that  desaves  you!  Oh!  sure, 
it's  the  face  of  a  shillin'  I  haven't  seen  for  more  than  a 
twel'month,  and  I  afeared  to  say  a  word,  for  the 
guardians  do  be  strugglin'  to  get  me  into  the  House. 
Half-a-crown  a  week  and  a  bandage  for  me  poor  leg 
is  all  I've  had  out  of  the  blackgyards,  and  they  sittin* 
on  the  poor  wid  one  hand  and  fillin'  their  bellies  wid  the 
other.  Atin'  and  dhrinkin'  and  havin'  the  height  of 
fine  times  they  do  be  wid  the  money  of  the  parish.  May 
it  stick  in  their  livers  till  the  divil  chokes  their  black 
mouths  with  burnin'  turves  an'  bastes  them  wid  the 
bilin'  tears  of  the  poor  they  do  be  defraudin' !  And 
they're  all  up  against  Mr.  Michael.  Whisht !  now,  and 
I'll  tell  you  somethin'.  Shusey  Gallagher,  she's  serv- 
ant beyant  over  there  at  Blood,  the  farrier's;  she 
tould  me  to  kape  it  saycret  they  was  going  to  play 
their  tricks  on  Mr.  Michael's  horses  if  he  went  on  lettin' 
his  land  to  the  graziers.  She  said  they  was  going 

At  this  moment  the  cabin  door  was  flung  open  and 
a  ragged  urchin  popped  his  head  in,  shouted,  "  Boo!" 
and  clapped  the  door  to  again.  It  was  a  favourite 
pastime  with  the  Cloyne  children  to  shout  through  old 
Mrs.  Moriarty's  door,  and  then  watch  her  raging 
through  the  window. 

"  Away  wid  yiz !  "  yelled  Mrs.  Moriarty,  forgetting 
Violet,  Mr.  French's  enemies,  and  everything  else  in 
her  excitement,  turning  to  the  window,  where  she  knew 
her  tormenter  would  be,  and  shaking  her  fist  at  the 
grinning  face  peeping  in  at  her.  **  Away  wid  yiz, 


98  GARRYOWEN 

or  I'll  cut  your  lights  out,  comin'  shoutin*  through  me 
dure,  you  divil's  baboon,  wid  your  ugly  gob  stuck  at 
me  window  there!  Gr-r-r!  Out  wid  you,  you  baste, 
you,  or  I'll  lay  you  flat  so  your  mother  won't  know 
you  wid  a  sod  of  turf !  Off  wid  you  and  ax  your  father 
what  he  meant  gettin'  such  a  monkey-faced  parrit  and 
lettin'  it  loose  on  the  parish  widout  a  chain  to  it, 
you  cross-eyed  son  of  a  blackgyard,  you !  " 

All  of  which  was  better  than  pearls  to  the  one  at  the 
window. 

Horrified  at  the  language,  and  fearing  a  stroke  for 
Mrs.  Moriarty,  the  girl  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it, 
only  to  see  a  small  gossoon,  bare-legged  and  bare- 
footed, vanishing  round  the  corner. 

Then  she  came  back,  anxious  to  get  out  of  Mrs. 
Moriarty  more  information  concerning  the  plans 
against  French,  but  the  source  had  dried  up.  The 
old  lady  declared  herself  to  be  moidhered,  and  her  wits 
to  be  all  astray. 

"Well,  listen  to  me,"  said  Violet.  "If  you  hear 
any  more  of  those  men  going  to  harm  Mr.  French  or 
his  horses  let  me  know,  and  I'll  give  you  a  silver  five- 
shilling  piece  for  yourself." 

Mrs.  Moriarty  understood  that. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  French 
appeared,  and,  leaving  the  old  lady  to  her  pipe  and 
the  prospect  of  a  glass  of  whisky,  they  went  back  to 
the  inn  for  luncheon. 

The  hideous,  old-fashioned  Irish  custom  of  dinner  at 
four  o'clock  had  been  put  aside  on  account  of  Miss 
Grimshaw.  Seven  o'clock  was  the  dinner  hour  at 


GARRYOWEN  99 

Drumgool  now,  and  after  dinner  that  night,  Effie  hav- 
ing departed  for  bed  in  charge  of  Norah,  Violet,  with  a 
ball  of  red  wool  and  two  long  knitting-needles,  took 
her  seat  at  a  corner  of  the  fireplace  in  the  sitting- 
room.  The  idea  of  a  red  knitted  petticoat  for  old 
Mrs.  Moriarty  had  occurred  to  her  on  the  way  home, 
and  she  was  putting  it  now  into  practice. 

French  had  been  rather  gloomy  on  the  way  home, 
and  at  dinner.  It  was  evident  that  the  incident  at 
the  meet  had  hit  him  hard.  Money  worries  could  not 
depress  the  light-hearted,  easy-going  gentleman,  who 
had  a  soul  above  money  and  the  small  affairs  of  life. 
It  was  the  feeling  of  enmity  against  himself  that  cast 
him  out  of  spirits  for  the  first  time  in  years.  For  the 
first  time  in  life  he  felt  the  presence,  and  the  influ- 
ence against  him,  of  the  thing  we  call  Fate. 

His  whole  soul,  heart,  and  mind  were  centred  on 
Garryowen.  In  Garryowen  he  felt  he  had  the  instru- 
ment which  would  bring  him  name  and  fame  and  for- 
tune. It  was  no  fanciful  belief.  He  knew  horses  pro- 
foundly; here  was  the  thing  he  had  been  waiting  for 
all  his  life,  and  everything  was  conspiring  to  prevent 
him  using  it. 

First,  there  was  Lewis  and  his  debt — that  was  bad 
enough.  Second,  was  the  fact  that  he  would  have  to 
complete  the  training  of  the  horse  in  a  hostile  coun- 
try, and  that  country  the  Ireland  of  to-day,  a  place 
where  law  is  not  and  where  petty  ruffianism  has  been 
cultivated  as  a  fine  art.  With  Giveen  for  a  spy  on 
his  movements,  with  a  hundred  scoundrels  ready  to  do 
him  an  injury,  and  with  Lewis  only  waiting  to  put 


100  GARRYOWEN 

out  his  hand  and  seize  the  horse,  he  was,  it  must  be 
admitted,  in  a  pretty  bad  way  to  the  attainment  of 
his  desires. 

But  he  had  a  friend,  and  as  long  as  a  man  has  a 
friend,  however  humble,  he  is  not  altogether  in  the 
hands  of  Fate.  The  girl  sitting  by  the  fire,  knitting 
a  red  petticoat  for  old  Mrs.  Moriarty,  had  been  exer- 
cising her  busy  mind  for  the  past  few  days  on  the 
seeming  hopelessness  of  the  problem  presented  to  her 
in  French  and  his  affairs.  She  had  inherited  a  good 
deal  of  her  father's  business  sharpness.  She  was  not 
the  niece  of  Simon  Gretry  for  nothing,  and  a  way  out 
of  the  difficulty  had  presented  itself  before  her;  at 
least,  she  fancied  it  was  a  way. 

At  nine  o'clock,  after  a  look  round  the  stables,  Mr. 
French  came  in,  and,  sitting  down  in  the  arm-chair 
opposite  the  girl,  opened  the  Irish  Times  and  began  to 
read  it,  listlessly  skimming  the  columns  without  find- 
ing anything  of  interest,  moving  restlessly  in  his  chair, 
lighting  his  pipe  and  letting  it  go  out  again.  Miss 
Grimshaw,  without  pausing  in  her  rapid  knitting  or 
dropping  a  stitch,  watched  him. 

Then  she  said,  "  Do  you  know  I've  been  thinking?  " 

"  What  have  you  been  thinking?  " 

"  That  I've  found  a  way  out  of  your  difficulty  about 
Garryowen." 

"And  what's  that?"  asked  French,  who,  since  the 
affair  of  Effie,  had  conceived  a  deep  respect  for  Miss 
Grimshaw's  cleverness  and  perspicuity. 

"  Well,  it's  this  way,"  said  she.  "  That  man  Lewis 
is  your  stumbling-block." 


GARRYOWEN  101 

"  Call  him  my  halter,"  said  the  owner  of  Garryowen, 
"  for  if  ever  a  man  had  a  blind  horse  in  a  halter,  it's 
me  and  him." 

"  No,  I  will  not  call  him  any  such  thing.  He's 
only  a  moneylender.  You  owe  him  the  money.  Garry- 
owen will  belong  to  him  after  the  third  of  April.  Well, 
let  him  have  Garryowen." 

"  Faith,  there's  no  letting  about  it." 

"  Let  him  have  Garryowen,  I  say,  but  not  until  after 
the  race." 

"  Why — what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  this.  Would  it  not  be  possible  to  take 
Garryowen  away  from  here  secretly?  He  does  not  be- 
long to  Mr.  Lewis  yet.  Take  him  away  to  some  lonely 
place,  train  him  there,  and  run  him  for  the  race.  If 
he  wins,  you  will  make  money,  won't  you?  And  if  he 
loses,  why,  he  will  belong  to  Mr.  Lewis." 

French  rose  up  and  paced  the  floor. 

"  That's  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  he.  "  By  George ! 
it's  good,  if  we  could  do  it.  Only,  could  we  keep  it 
hid?" 

"Does  Mr.  Lewis  know  you  are  running  him  for 
the  race?" 

"  No.  He  doesn't  know  I've  got  him,  and  the  debt's 
not  due  till  a  fortnight  before  the  event.  And,  by 
Jove!  if  he  does  see  my  name  in  the  racing  lists,  he'll 
put  it  down  as  my  cousin,  Michael  French's — the  one 
Mr.  Dashwood  met — for  Michael  runs  horses  in  Eng- 
land every  day  in  the  week,  and  his  name's  as  well 
known  as  the  Monument.  Faith!  and  it's  a  bright 
idea,  for  I'd  get  rid  of  all  this  crew  here  at  one  sweep." 


102  GARRYOWEN 

Mr.  French  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called: 

"Norah!" 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"  Bring  the  whisky !  " 

"  But,"  continued  Mr.  French,  "  the  only  question 
is  where  could  I  take  the  horse?  Faith!  and  I  have  it. 
Todd  Mead — he's  a  man  you've  never  heard  of — has  an 
old  shanty  down  in  Sligo.  He  uses  it  for  breeding 
polo  ponies,  and  there's  a  hundred  square  mile  of  heath 
that  you  could  train  a  dromedary  on  and  not  a  soul 
to  see.  He  lives  in  Dublin,  and  keeps  a  manager  there, 
and  he'd  give  me  stabling  there,  maybe,  for  nothing, 
for  he  has  more  room  than  he  wants.  It's  a  big  streel- 
ing  barn  of  a  place." 

"  You  say  the  debt  to  Mr.  Lewis  only  comes  due 
a  few  weeks  before  the  race  ?  "  asked  Miss  Grimshaw. 

«  Yes." 

"  Will  he  seize  your  things  immediately  the  debt  is 
due,  or  might  he  give  you  a  few  weeks'  grace  ?  " 

"  Not  an  hour's.  I  borrowed  the  money,  giving  him 
the  house  and  live-stock  as  security,  and  the  bit  of  land 
that's  unmortgaged,  and  he'll  clap  a  man  in  ten  min- 
utes after  the  clock  strikes  on  the  day  the  money  is 
due." 

"  But  if  you  have  borrowed  the  money  on  the  live 
stock,  surely,  since  Garryowan  is  part  of  the  live  stock, 
it  would  be  unlawful  to  remove  him  ?  " 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Mr.  French.  "  I  borrowed 
the  money  before  I  owned  Garryowen.  Sure,  the  main 
reason  I  borrowed  it  was  to  buy  him.  He's  not  part  of 
the  security." 


GARRYOWEN  103 

"  Well,  then,  Mr.  Lewis  can't  touch  him." 

"  Yes,  maybe,  by  law.  But  how  long  does  it  take 
to  prove  a  thing  by  law?  Suppose  he  puts  a  man  in. 
Well,  the  man  will  seize  the  colt  with  everything  else; 
then  the  lawyers  will  go  to  work  to  prove  the  colt's  not 
part  of  the  security  and  they'll  prove  it,  maybe,  about 
next  June  twelvemonth,  and  by  that  time  two  City 
and  Suburbans  will  have  been  run,  and  Garryowen  will 
be  good  for  nothing  but  to  make  glue  of.  Besides, 
these  blackguards  here  may  do  him  an  injury.  No, 
the  plan  is  to  slip  out  by  the  back  door.  Major  Law- 
son,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  has  a  stable  at  Epsom.  We 
can  bring  the  colt  there  two  days  before  the  race.  I'm 
beginning  to  see  clear  before  me  and,  faith,  it's  through 
your  eyes  I'm  seeing." 

"  You  are  sure  Mr.  Lewis  can't  come  down  on  you 
before  April  ?  " 

"  No.  I  paid  him  his  half-year's  interest  last  month. 
I  paid  him  close  on  two  hundred  pounds." 

"Well,  if  you  paid  him  his  interest  next  April, 
wouldn't  he  be  satisfied?  " 

"  Of  course  he'd  be  satisfied,  but  how  am  I  to  pay 
it?  I  tell  you,  it  will  take  me  every  penny  I  have  for 
the  expenses.  There's  no  margin  for  paying  money- 
lenders. 

"  I've  made  my  calculations.  By  scraping  and 
screwing,  with  some  money  I've  hid  away,  I  can  just 
manage  to  run  the  colt,  pay  expenses,  and  back  him  for 
a  thousand — and  that's  all." 

"  But,  see  here.  Why  not  back  him  for  only  eight 
hundred,  and  pay  Mr.  Lewis  his  two  hundred  ?  " 


104  GARRYOWEN 

"  Now,  there  you  are,"  said  French.  "  And  that 
shows  you  haven't  grasped  the  big  thing  I'm  after. 
Suppose  I  pay  Lewis  his  two  hundred,  and  only  back 
the  colt  for  eight  hundred,  do  you  know  what  that 
would  make  me  lose  if  he  starts  at,  say,  a  hundred  to 
one,  and  wins?  I'd  lose  twenty  thousand  pounds.  It's 
on  the  cards  that  for  every  hundred  pounds  I  lay 
on  Garryowen  I'll  win  ten  thousand." 

"  So  that,  if  he  wins,  and  you  have  the  full  thousand 
on  him?  " 

"  I'll  win  a  hundred  thousand." 

"And  if  he  loses?" 

"  Faith,  I'll  be  stripped  as  naked  as  Bryan  O'Lynn." 

There  was  a  fine  sporting  flavour  in  this  deal  with 
fortune  that  pleased  Miss  Grimshaw  somehow. 

"  There  is  one  more  thing,"  said  she.  "  Please  ex- 
cuse me  for  asking  you  the  question,  but  if  you  lose 
the  thousand,  it  will  be  all  right,  I  suppose?  I  mean, 
you  will  be  able  to  meet  your  liabilities?  " 

"  Sure,  you  do  not  take  me  for  a  blackleg?  Of 
course,  I'll  be  able  to  pay.  Isn't  it  a  debt  of  honour?  " 

"  Good.  Then  go  in  and  win.  Isn't  that  what  the 
boys  say  when  they  are  fighting?  I'll  help  as  far  as 
my  power  will  allow  me.  Will  you  write  to  Mr.  Todd 
— what's  his  name?  " 

«No,"  said  Mr.  French.  "I'll  go  to  Dublin  to- 
morrow and  see  him." 


CHAPTER    X 

"  VILITS,  vilits,  vilits,  your  arner !  " 

"Oh,  bother  violets!"  said  Mr.  French.  He  had 
just  come  down  the  steps  of  the  Kildare  Street  Club, 
he  had  lost  five  pounds  at  cards,  the  afternoon  was  driz- 
zling, and  he  was  being  pestered  to  buy  violets. 

The  violet  vendor,  a  fantastical,  filthy  old  woman 
in  a  poke  bonnet,  heedless  of  the  rebuke,  pursued  her 
avocation  and  Mr.  French,  trotting  like  a  dog  behind 
him,  chanting  her  wares,  her  misfortunes,  his  good 
looks. 

"  Sure,  they're  only  a  penny  the  bunch ;  sure,  they're 
only  a  penny  the  bunch.  Oh,  bless  your  han'some  face ! 
Sure,  you  wouldn't  be  walkin'  the  shtreets  widout  a 
flower  in  yer  coat.  Let  your  hand  drap  into  your 
pocket  and  find  a  penny,  and  it's  the  blessin's  of  Heaven 
will  be  pourin'  on  you  before  the  night's  out.  Sure, 
it's  a  bunch  I'll  be  givin'  you  for  nothin'  at  all,  but 
just  the  pleasure  of  fixin'  it  in  your  coat,  an'  they  as 
big  as  cabbiges  and  on'y  a  penny  the  bunch." 

It  was  a  kind  of  song,  a  recitative,  and  invoca- 
tion. 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  no  change,"  flashed  the  flowerless 
one.  "  I  tell  you  I  have  no  change." 

The  priestess  of  Flora  halted  and  sniffed. 

"  Change !  "  said  she.     "  No,  nor  nothin'  to  change." 

Mr.  French  laughed  as  he  opened  his  umbrella  and 
105 


106  GARRYOWEN 

hailed  a  passing  outside  car.  "  Faith,"  said  he,  as  he 
mounted  on  the  side  of  the  car,  "  she's  about  hit  the 
bull's-eye." 

"  Did  you  spake,  sir?  "  said  the  jarvey. 

"  No,  I  was  only  thinking.  Drive  me  to  32  Leeson 
Street.  And  where  on  earth  did  you  pick  up  this  old 
rattletrap  of  a  horse  from?  " 

"Pick  him  up!"  said  the  jarvey  with  a  grin. 
"  Faith,  the  last  time  I  picked  him  up  was  when  he 
tumbled  down  in  Dame  Street  yesterday  afternoon, 
wid  a  carload  of  luggudge  dhrivin'  to  Westland  Row." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  talent  for  picking  up  rub- 
bish, then?  "  said  Mr.  French. 

"  It's  the  fault  of  the  p'leece,"  replied  the  other  with 
an  extension  of  the  grin  that  nature,  whisky,  and  the 
profession  of  car-driving  had  fixed  upon  his  face. 
"  It's  the  fault  of  the  p'leece,  bad  'cess  to  them !  " 

"  And  how's  that?  "  asked  Mr.  French  incautiously. 

"  Sure,  they  forbids  me  to  refuse  a  fare.  Jay  up, 
y'  divil!  What  are  yiz  shyin*  at?  Did  y'  never  see  a 
barra  of  greens  before?  Now  thin,  now  thin,  what  are 
you  takin'  yourself  to  be,  or  what  ails  you,  at  all,  at 
all?  " 

The  car  stopped  at  32  Leeson  Street.  Mr.  French 
descended,  gave  the  jarvey  a  shilling  for  his  fare  and 
sixpence  for  a  drink,  and  knocked  at  the  hall  door. 

Mr.  Mead  was  in,  and  the  old  butler,  who  opened 
the  door,  showed  the  visitor  straight  into  the  library 
— a  comfortable,  old-fashioned  room,  where,  before  a 
bright  fire,  Mr.  Mead,  a  small,  bright-eyed,  apple- 
cheeked,  youthful-looking  person  of  eighty  or  so,  was 


GARRYOWEN  107 

seated  in  an  armchair  reading  Jorrocks'  "  Jaunts  and 
Jollities." 

"  Why,  there  you  are!  "  cried  Mead,  jumping  up. 

"  And  there  you  are ! "  said  Mr.  French,  clasping 
the  old  fellow's  hand.  "  Why,  it's  younger  you're 
growing  every  time  I  see  you!  Did  you  get  my  wire? 
Oh !  you  did,  did  you  ?  Two  o'clock !  The  scoundrels ! 
I  sent  it  off  from  the  Shelbourne  at  twelve.  No  mat- 
ter. And  how's  the  family?" 

"  All  right,"  replied  Mead,  putting  Jorrocks  on  the 
mantelshelf  and  ringing  the  bell.  "  Billy  married  last 
winter.  You  remember  I  wrote  to  you?  And  Kate's 
engaged — James,  a  bottle  of  the  blue-seal  port! — and 
what's  the  news  ?  " 

"  News !  "  said  French  with  a  short  laugh.  "  What 
news  do  you  expect  from  the  West  of  Ireland  except 
news  of  men  being  plundered  and  cattle  maimed? 
News !  I'm  leaving  the  place ;  and  that's  why  I 
wanted  to  see  you.  See  here,  Mead." 

Mead,  who  was  opening  a  bottle  of  the  blue-seal 
port — an  operation  which  he  always  conducted  with 
his  own  hands — listened  while  French  poured  into  his 
attentive  ears  the  tale  of  his  woes. 

"  The  blackguards !  "  said  the  old  man  when  French 
had  finished.  "  And  do  you  mean  to  say  you've  gone 
off  and  left  the  horse  behind  you  for  these  chaps  to 
maim  ?  Maybe " 

"Oh!  Moriarty  is  there,"  replied  French.  "He's 
sleeping  in  the  stable,  and  Andy  is  sleeping  in  the 
loft.  But  it's  on  my  mind  that  some  dirty  trick  will 
be  played  before  we  get  the  colt  to  England,  and  that's 


108  GARRYOWEN 

why  I've  called  to  see  you.  Look  here;  you've  got 
that  place  for  your  polo  ponies  down  in  Sligo.  Will 
you  let  me  take  Garryowen  over  there  and  finish  his 
training?  " 

"  You  mean  my  place  at  Ballyhinton  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Sure,  I've  sold  it.     Didn't  you  know?  " 

"Sold  it!" 

"Eight  months  ago." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  French.  "That  does  me. 
And  I've  come  all  the  way  to  Dublin  to  see  you  about 
it.  Was  there  ever  such  luck !  " 

"  You  see,"  said  Mead,  "  I'm  not  as  young  as  I 
was.  Bryan — the  chap  I  had  there — was  swindling  me 
right  and  left,  so  I  sold  off,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel. 
I'm  sorry." 

"  Faith,  and  so  am  I,"  said  French. 

The  big  man,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  felt 
knocked  out.  Never  for  a  moment  did  he  dream  of 
giving  in,  but  he  was  winded.  Besides  all  the  worries 
we  know  of,  a  number  of  small  things  had  declared 
against  him,  culminating  in  his  loss  at  cards.  He 
felt  that  he  was  in  a  vein  of  bad  luck,  under  a  cloud, 
and  that  until  the  cloud  lifted  and  the  luck  changed 
it  was  hopeless  for  him  to  make  plans  or  do  anything. 

He  took  leave  of  Mead  and  returned  to  the  Shel- 
bourne  on  foot.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  as  he  drew 
near  the  hotel  the  sun  broke  through  the  clouds. 

As  he  entered  the  hotel  he  ran  almost  into  the 
arms  of  a  young  man  dressed  in  a  fawn-coloured  over- 
coat, who,  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  was 


GARRYOWEN  109 

standing  in  the  hall,  a  cigarette  between  his  lips  and 
a  matchbox  in  his  hand. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  French ;  then,  start- 
ing back,  "  Why,  sure  to  goodness,  if  it  isn't  Mr. 
Dashwood!" 


CHAPTER    XI 

"COME  into  the  smoking-room,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood 
when  they  had  shaken  hands.  "  This  is  luck !  I  only 
came  over  by  the  morning  boat.  I'm  coming  down 
west.  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a  minute.  Come 
on  into  the  smoking-room  and  have  a  drink." 

Mr.  Dashwood  seemed  in  the  highest  of  good  spirits. 
He  led  the  way  into  the  smoking-room,  rang  the  bell, 
ordered  two  whiskies  and  an  Apollinaris  and  cigars, 
chaffed  the  Hibernian  waiter,  who  was  a  "  character," 
and  then,  comfortably  seated,  began  his  conversation 
with  French. 

"Here's  luck!"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  Luck ! "  responded  French,  taking  a  sip  of  his 
drink. 

"  This  is  the  first  drink  I've  had  to-day,"  said  Mr. 
Dashwood.  "  I've  felt  as  seedy  as  an  owl.  It  was 
an  awfully  rough  crossing,  but  I  didn't  touch  any- 
thing. I  tell  you  what,  French,  since  I  saw  you  last 
I've  been  going  it  hard,  but  I've  pulled  up.  You  see," 
said  Mr.  Dashwood,  "  I'm  not  a  drinking  man,  and 
when  a  fellow  of  that  sort  goes  on  the  jag,  he  makes 
a  worse  jag  of  it  than  one  of  your  old  seasoned  topers." 

"That's  so,"  said  French.  "And  if  you  start  to 
try  to  match  one  of  those  chaps,  it's  like  matching 
yourself  against  a  rum  barrel..  What  drove  you  to 
it?" 

no 


GARRYOWEN  111 

"  A  woman,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

Mr.  French  laughed. 

"  Two  women,  I  should  say.  I  got  tangjed  up  with 
a  woman." 

"  And  you  tried  to  cut  the  knot  with  a  whisky  bot- 
tle. Well,  you're  not  the  first.  Fire  away,  and  tell 
us  about  it." 

"  It's  this  way,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  A  year  ago 
I  met  a  Miss  Hitchin.  She  was  one  of  those  red- 
haired  girls  who  wear  green  gowns,  don't  you  know? 
and  go  in  for  things — Herbert  Spencer  and  all  that 
sort  of  stuff,  don't  you  know?  I  met  her  at  a  show 
a  Johnny  took  me  to  for  fun,  a  kind  of  literary  club 
business.  Then,  next  day  I  met  her  again  by  accident 
in  the  Park,  and  we  walked  round  the  Serpentine. 
You  see,  I'd  never  met  a  woman  like  that  before.  She 
lived  in  rooms  by  herself,  like  a  man,  and  she  had  a 
latchkey. 

"  I  wasn't  in  love  with  her,"  continued  the  ingenu- 
ous Mr.  Dashwood,  "  but,  somehow  or  another,  be- 
fore I'd  known  her  ten  days  I  was  engaged  to  her. 
Awfully  funny  business.  You  see,  she  had  a  lot  of 
mind  of  her  own,  and  I  admire  intellect  in  a  woman, 
and  she  was  a  right  good  sort.  I  told  her  all  about 
my  life,  and  she  wanted  me  to  lead  a  higher  one.  Said 
she  never  could  marry  me  unless  I  did.  The  strange 
thing  about  her  was  she  always  made  me  feel  as  if  I 
was  in  a  Sunday  school,  though  she  wasn't  pious  in 
the  least.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  didn't  believe  in 
religion ;  that  is  to  say,  church,  and  all  that ;  but  she 
was  a  Socialist. 


112  GARRYOWEN 

"  Awfully  strong  on  dividing  up  every  one's  money 
so  that  every  one  would  have  five  pounds  a  week.  I 
used  to  fight  her  over  that,  for  she  had  three  hundred 
a  year  of  her  own,  and  stuck  to  it ;  besides,  I  didn't 
see  the  force  of  making  all  the  rotters  in  the  world 
happy,  and  drunk,  with  five  quid  a  week  out  of  my 
pocket ;  but  she  never  would  give  in ;  always  had  some 
card  up  her  sleeve  to  trump  me  with. 

"  You  see,  I'm  not  a  political  Johnny,  and  hadn't 
studied  up  the  question.  But  we  never  fought  really 
over  that.  Men  and  women  don't  ever  really  fight  over 
that  sort  of  thing;  and  I'd  always  give  in  for  a  quiet 
life,  and  we'd  go  off  and  have  tea  at  the  British 
Museum  and  look  at  the  mummies  and  the  marbles  and 
things,  and  after  six  months  or  so  I  got  quite  fond 
of  her  in  a  way,  and  I  began  to  look  forward  to 
marrying  her. 

"  I  used  to  mug  up  Herbert  Spencer  and  a  chap 
called  Marx,  and  I  never  looked  at  another  woman, 
and  scarcely  ever  made  a  bet:  and  it  might  have 
gone  on  to  us  getting  two  latchkeys  only " 

Mr.  Dashwood  stopped. 

"Only  I  met  another  girl,"  he  went  on.  "That 
put  me  in  a  beastly  position,  and  the  long  and  short 
of  it  is  I  went  on  the  razzle-dazzle  from  the  bothera- 
tion of  it  all.  Miss  H.  found  out,  and  she  cut  the 
knot  herself.  I'm  glad  to  be  free,"  finished  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  "  but  I  wish  it  had  happened  some  other 
way.  In  fact,  I  wish  I'd  never  met  Miss  H.  at 
all." 

"And  who  is  the  other  girl?"  asked  Mr.  French. 


GARRYOWEN  113 

"Oh,  you  know  her." 

"I?" 

"  Yes ;  she's  down  at  your  place  now." 

"Not  Miss  Grimshaw?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Grimshaw.  And  that's  the  reason  I'm 
going  down  west.  I  want  to  see  her  and  tell  her 
all." 

French  whistled;  then  he  laughed. 

"  You  seem  in  mighty  good  spirits  over  her,"  said 
he.  "  How  do  you  know  she'll  have  anything  to  do 
with  you?  Have  you  asked  her?" 

"  Asked  her !  No.  How  could  I,  when  I  was  tied 
up  like  that?  That's  what  drove  me  off  my  balance. 
But  I'm  going  to  ask  her,  and  that's  why  I've  come 
over  to  Ireland." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Mr.  French. 

"Yes?" 

"  You  said  when  I  met  you  in  the  hall  you  were 
going  to  put  up  at  Mrs.  Sheelan's.  You're  not. 
Come  and  stay  at  Drumgool,  on  one  condition." 

"What's  that?" 

"  That  you  don't  ask  her.  First  of  all,  you  haven't 
known  her  long  enough;  and  she  hasn't  known  you 
long  enough  to  find  out  whether  you  are  properly 
matched.  Second,  I'm  not  so  sure  that  I'm  not  going 
to  ask  her  myself." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  beg  my  pardon.  I'm  just  telling 
you  what's  in  my  mind.  I'm  so  moithered  with  one 
thing  and  another,  I've  no  heart  for  anything  at  pres- 
ent, but  just  this  horse  I  told  you  about,  you  re- 


114  GARRYOWEN 

member — Garryowen.  And  I'm  not  a  man  to  stand 
between  two  young  people  if  their  minds  are  set  on 
each  other.  But  the  question  is,  Are  they?  You 
care  for  her,  but  does  she  care  for  you?  So,  take  an 
open  field  and  no  favour.  Don't  go  sticking  at  Mrs. 
Sheelan's,  seeing  her  maybe  only  once  in  a  week,  but 
come  right  to  Drumgool.  No  proposing,  mind  you, 
or  any  of  that  rubbish.  I'm  giving  you  your  chance 
fair  and  square,  and  I'm  telling  you  fair  and  square 
it's  in  my  mind  that  I  may  ask  her  myself.  So,  there 
you  are.  Take  the  offer  or  leave  it." 

Mr.  Dashwood  paused  for  a  moment  before  this 
astonishing  proposition,  which  upset  all  his  precon- 
ceived ideas  of  love  affairs ;  then  the  straightness  and 
strangeness  and  sense  of  it  went  to  his  heart.  Surely 
never  had  a  man  a  more  generous  rival  than  this,  and 
the  sporting  nature  and  the  humour  of  it  completed 
the  business,  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Right,"  said  he.  "  Another  man  would  have 
acted  differently.  Yes,  I'll  come.  And  I'll  play  the 
game;  get.  to  know  her  better,  and  then,  why,  if  she 
cares  for  me,  it's  the  fortune  of  war." 

"  That's  it,"  said  French,  "  and  now  I  want  to  tell 
you  about  the  horse." 

He  gave  the  full  history  of  his  predicament,  of  the 
league,  and  the  money  worries,  and  the  enemies  who 
seemed  bent  on  destroying  his  chance  of  success.  "  If 
I  could  only  get  the  horse  out  of  the  country,"  said 
French.  "  But  I  can't." 

"Can't  you?"  said  Bobby,  who  had  followed  the 
tale  with  sparkling  eyes  and  rising  colour.  "  Who 


GARRYOWEN  115 

says  you  can't?  I  say  you  can,  and  I'll  show  you 
how." 

He  rose  up  and  paced  the  floor. 

"Don't  speak  to  me.  This  is  simply  frabjous! 
Why,  ray  dear  chap,  I've  got  just  what  you  want." 

"What's  that?" 

"  A  place  where  you  can  train  half  a  dozen  horses 
if  you  want  to." 

"Where?" 

"Where?  Why,  down  at  Crowsnest,  in  Sussex. 
It's  not  my  place;  it  belongs,  Vmatter  of  fact,  to 
Emmanuel  Ibbetson.  He's  chucked  horses,  and  he's 
going  to  pull  the  place  down  and  rebuild  when  he 
comes  back  from  Africa.  I  can  get  a  loan  of  it  for 
three  or  four  months." 

"  What  would  the  rent  be?  "  asked  Mr.  French. 

"  Nothing.  He'll  lend  me  it.  He's  just  now  con- 
structing a  big-game  expedition,  and  they  start  in  a 
few  days.  I  saw  him  only  the  day  before  yesterday 
at  White's.  Lucky,  ain't  it,  that  I  thought  of  it? 
I'll  wire  to  him  now  asking  for  the  permit.  The  place 
is  furnished  all  right ;  there's  a  caretaker  in  it.  It's  a 
bungalow  with  no  end  of  fine  stables.  The  Martens 
is  the  name  of  it." 

"Begad,"  said  Mr.  French,  "this  is  like  Provi- 
dence!" 

"Isn't  it?  You  hold  on  here,  and  I'll  send  the 
wire.  I'll  send  it  to  his  chambers  in  the  Albany,  and 
we'll  have  the  reply  back  to-night  or  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

When    the   wire   was   despatched,   Mr.   French   pro- 


116  GARRYOWEN 

posed  an  adjournment  to  the  Kildare-street  Club, 
whither,  accordingly,  the  two  gentlemen  took  their 
way. 

"If,"  said  he,  "we  can  pull  this  business  off,  I'll 
never  forget  it  to  you.  You  don't  know  what  this 
means  to  me.  It's  not  the  money  so  much — though 
that's  a  good  deal — but  it's  the  outwitting  and  get- 
ting the  better  of  those  scoundrels,  Dick  Giveen  and 
the  rest  of  them.  Even  if  your  friend  agrees  to  lend 
us  this  place,  all  our  troubles  aren't  ended.  I  want 
to  get  the  horse  away  without  any  one  knowing  where 
I'm  taking  him  to.  I'll  have  to  take  Moriarty  and 
Andy  and  I  can't  leave  Effie  behind,  for  if  I  did  I'd 
have  to  write  to  her,  and  they  open  the  letters  at  the 
post-office  in  Cloyne,  and  even  if  they  didn't  open  them 
they'd  see  the  post-marks.  I  mustn't  leave  a  clue  be- 
hind me  to  tell  where  I'm  gone  to,  and  with  that  beast 
of  a  Giveen  nosing  about  like  a  rat  it'll  be  difficult 
rather;  but  we'll  do  it!" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  "we'll  do  it." 

The  excitement  of  the  business  filled  him  with 
pleasurable  anticipations ;  and  he  had  not  reckoned 
on  Emmanuel  Ibbetson  in  vain,  for  when  they  got 
back  to  the  Shelbourne  in  the  evening  they  found  a 
wire  from  that  gentleman.  It  only  contained  three 
words : 

"Yes,  with  pleasure." 

With  this  telegram  there  was  another.  It  was  from 
Miss  Grimshaw,  and  it  ran: 

"  Come  back  at  once." 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  clay  Mr.  French  left  Drumgool  on  his  visit  to 
Dublin  it  rained. 

Croagh  Mahon  had  been  winding  himself  with 
scarves  of  mist  all  the  day  before,  and  he  had  come  up 
so  close  to  Drumgool  that  you  might  have  hit  him  with 
a  biscuit,  to  use  Moriarty's  expression. 

The  weather  kept  the  great  mountain  for  ever  in 
fantastic  movement,  now  retreating,  now  advancing. 
He  grew  and  shrank  in  a  wizard  way  with  the  changes 
of  the  atmosphere.  To-day  he  would  be  immense,  slate- 
coloured,  strewn  with  dim  ravines  standing  beneath 
the  subdued  beauty  of  the  quiet  winter  daylight,  a  sure 
sign  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  be  blotted  out.  Fine 
weather  would  cast  him  far  away,  and  he  would  stand, 
heather  purple  in  the  blue  distance,  but  still  calling 
you  to  come  to  him. 

When  Mr.  French  departed  for  the  station  the 
weather  was  clear,  and  Miss  Grimshaw,  having  watched 
him  drive  away,  strolled  down  the  garden,  then  through 
a  little  wicket  she  passed  into  the  kitchen  garden,  and 
from  there  along  the  uphill  path  to  the  cliffs. 

There  was  little  wind  on  the  cliffs,  and  the  sea  was 
coming  in  unruffled,  yet  hugely  stirring  in  league-long 
lapses  of  swell. 

Boom ! 

117 


118  GARRYOWEN 

The  whole  coast  answered  with  a  deep  organ  note 
to  the  leisurely  breaking  of  the  billows. 

Boom! 

You  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  Devil's  Kitchen,  the 
voices  of  the  Seven  Sisters,  the  voices  of  the  long  Black 
Strand,  the  voices  of  the  headlands,  as  billow  after 
billow  struck  the  coast — great  waves  from  the  very 
heart  of  the  ocean ;  and  the  snarl  of  the  pebbles  to  the 
undertow  on  the  strand  beneath  could  be  heard  shrill 
like  the  voice  of  each  dying  wave,  "  I  have  come  from 
afar — afar — afar !  " 

No  other  sound. 

Not  a  whisper  from  the  land  stretching  away  to  the 
distant  hills  under  the  dull  grey  sky ;  not  a  whisper 
from  the  heaving  sea  stretching  away  to  the  fleckless 
grey  horizon. 

Boom! 

"  I  have  come  from  afar — afar — afar !  "  Nothing 
more  except  the  cry  of  a  gull.  The  girl  stood  on  the 
cliff  edge,  looking  and  listening.  The  air  was  sweet 
with  the  recent  rain,  invigorating  as  wine,  clear  as 
crystal,  filled  with  ozone  from  the  seaweed-strewn  shore 
and  the  perfume  of  earth  from  the  rain-soaked  land. 

She  could  see  the  Seven  Sisters  seated  in  their  rings 
of  foam.  Miles  of  coast  lay  on  either  hand,  cliff,  and 
headland,  and  bay  singing  together  and  being  sung 
to  by  the  waves,  tremendous,  majestic,  desolate,  just  as 
they  sang  and  were  sung  to  a  million  years  ago,  just 
as  they  will  sing  and  be  sung  to  a  million  years  hence. 

The  recollection  of  Mr.  Giveen,  called  up  in  her  mind 
by  the  sea,  brought  French  and  his  troubles  before  her, 


GARRYOWEN  119 

the  league  and  its  pettiness,  and  old  Ryan  and  his 
cows'  tails.  Before  the  tremendous  seascape  all  these 
things  shrank  to  their  true  proportions,  and  the  boom- 
ing of  the  billows  seemed  like  a  voice  commenting  on 
it  all,  yet  indifferent  to  the  doings,  the  hopes,  and  aims 
of  man  as  Death. 

A  spot  of  rain  touched  her  cheek,  and  she  turned 
from  the  cliff  and  began  the  descent  towards  the  house. 
At  the  gate  leading  into  the  kitchen  garden  a  dirty 
and  draggle-tailed  girl  without  boots  or  shoes,  a  girl  of 
about  fourteen,  with  a  dirty  face,  was  endeavouring  to 
unravel  the  mystery  of  the  latch — it  was  a  patent  latch 
with  a  trick  bar  in  the  staple — and  failing. 

Miss  Grimshaw  came  to  her  assistance,  opened  the 
gate,  and  held  it  open  for  the  other  to  pass  through, 
but  the  damsel  did  not  enter. 

She  stood  with  eyes  downcast.  Then  she  looked  up, 
then  she  looked  down,  then 

"  If  you  plaze,  miss,"  said  she,  "  are  you  the  young 
lady  ould  Mrs.  Moriarty  tould  me  to  ax  for?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  laughed  Violet,  then,  re- 
membering the  name,  "  Do  you  mean  old  Mrs.  Mori- 
arty at  Cloyne?" 

"  Yes,  miss." 

"  Well,  why  did  she  send  you?  " 

"  If  you  plaze,  miss,  I'm  Shusey  Gallagher." 

"Yes?" 

"  I'm  the  servant  at  the  blacksmith's,  miss,  and  ould 
Mrs.  Moriarty  sez  to  me  to  keep  me  ears  open  to  hear 
if  the  bhoys  was  afther  playin'  any  tricks  on  Mr. 
Frinch,  an'  she'd  give  me  a  sixpence,  miss ;  so  I  lays  wid 


120  GARRYOWEN 

me  ears  open,  pretendin'  to  be  aslape,  and  I  heard  him 
say  to  his  wife :  *  It's  fixed  for  Thursday  night,'  says 
he.  « What's  fixed?'  says  she.  '  Frinch's  job,'  says 
he." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cut  in  Miss  Grimshaw.  "  But  who  were 
these  people  speaking  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Blood,  the  blacksmith,  miss,  and  his  wife,  and 
I  lyin'  wid  me  ears  open  and  they  thinkin'  me  aslape. 
*  What  are  they  goin'  to  do?'  says  she.  'Hamstring 
the  coult,'  says  he.  *  Garry owen  ?  '  says  she.  '  The 
same,'  says  he.  '  And  how  many  of  them  on  the  job?  ' 
says  she.  *  Only  one,'  says  he.  '  That'll  larn  ould 
Frinch,' says  she.  '  And  who's  goin'  to  do  it?  '  'Black 
Larry,'  he  says,  '  and  now  shut  your  head,  for  it's 
tired  I  am  and  wants  to  go  to  slape.'  " 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  replied  the  taleteller,  evidently  pleased 
with  the  effect  of  her  information.  "  And  ould  Mrs. 
Moriarty,  when  I  tould  her,  '  Run,  Shusey,'  says  she, 
'  hot-fut  to  Dhrumgool,  and  ax  for  the  young  lady  and 
give  her  me  rispicts,  an'  tell  her  what  you've  tould  me, 
and  maybe  she  won't  forget  you  for  your  thrub- 
ble.'" 

"  That  she  won't,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  taking  her 
purse  from  her  pocket  and  half  a  crown  from  her 
purse.  She  also  took  a  sixpence,  and,  giving  the  child 
the  sixpence,  she  showed  her  the  half-crown. 

"  I  will  give  you  that,"  said  she,  "  next  Friday  if 
what  you  have  told  me  is  true,  and  if  you  say  nothing 
about  this  to  any  one  else.  Tell  old  Mrs.  Moriarty  I 
will  call  and  see  her  and  thank  her  very  much  for  send- 


GARRYOWEN  121 

ing  you.  Now,  mind,  if  you  say  a  word  of  this  to  any 
one  else  you  won't  get  the  half-crown." 

Susie  Gallagher,  whose  mouth  had  flown  open  wide 
at  the  sight  of  the  half-crown,  closed  it  again. 

"  Plaze,  miss,  is  the  whole  half-crown  for  me?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  don't  say  a  word." 

"  Not  a  word,  miss ;  sure,  I'd  bite  me  tongue  off 
before  I'd  let  it  be  tellin'  a  word." 

"  And  go  on  keeping  your  ears  open,"  said  Miss 
Grimshaw,  "  and  let  me  know  if  you  hear  anything 
more." 

"  Yes,  miss." 

"  That'll  do,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  and  Susie  Galla- 
gher departed  running,  taking  a  hop,  skip,  and  a  jump 
now  and  then,  presumably  as  an  outlet  for  her  emotions. 

When  this  desirable  and  faithful  servitor  had 
vanished  round  the  corner,  Miss  Grimshaw  passed 
through  the  kitchen-garden  towards  the  stables.  She 
wanted  to  find  Moriarty.  The  news  had  shocked  her, 
but  as  yet  she  could  scarcely  believe  in  its  truth.  Susie 
Gallagher  was  not  a  person  to  bear  conviction,  however 
easily  she  might  bear  tales,  but  Moriarty  would  be 
able  to  decide. 

Moriarty  was  in  the  stableyard  with  Doolan.  They 
were  overhauling  the  fishing-tackle  of  the  past  season, 
deep-sea  lines  and  conger  hooks,  and  what  not,  while 
Mrs.  Driscoll  stood  at  the  back  entrance  to  the  kitchen 
premises,  her  apron  over  her  arms,  assisting  them.  She 
popped  in  when  Miss  Grimshaw  made  her  appearance, 
and  Moriarty  touched  his  cap. 

Ever  since  the  bailiff  incident  he  had  a  great  respect 


128  GARRYOWEN 

for  the  governess,  the  respect  a  sportsman  has  for  a 
sportsman. 

"  Moriarty,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Moriarty,  stepping  up  to  her. 

"  I  have  just  had  some  very  serious  news  about  the 
horses.  I  had  better  speak  to  you  about  it  in  the  li- 
brary. Come  in  there." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

When  they  were  in  the  library  she  shut  the  door  and 
told  him  all. 

"  Divil  mend  them ! "  said  Moriarty,  who  seemed 
much  perturbed. 

*'  Do  you  think  there  is  any  truth  in  it  ?  " 

"  I  do,  miss,  and  what's  botherin'  me  is  the  master 
bein'  away." 

"  He's  coming  back  on  Thursday." 

"  Yes,  miss.  If  they'll  only  hould  their  hands  till 
Thursday.  Not  that  I  mind  tacklin'  them  alone,  but 
if  there's  any  shootin'  to  be  done,  I'd  sooner  the  mas- 
ter was  on  the  primises." 

"  Oh,  but — you  won't  shoot  them !  " 

"  Shoot  them,  miss !  Faith,  if  I  catch  them  at  their 
games,  I'll  shoot  them  first  and  bile  them  afther.  To- 
day's Monday — are  you  sure  it  was  Thursday  she  said, 
miss?" 

"  Yes." 

Moriarty  ruminated. 

"  Black  Larry,  you  said  it  was,  miss,  that  was 
comin'?" 

"  Yes." 


GARRYOWEN  123 

"  Then  he's  sure  to  come  single-handed.  He  al- 
ways does  his  jobs  alone,  and  he's  never  been  cotched 
yet." 

"  Is  he  a  dangerous  man  ?  " 

"  He's  not  a  man,  miss,  he's  a  divil — six  fut  two  and 
as  black  as  a  flue-brush.  He  was  gamekeeper  to  the 
masther,  and  the  masther  turned  him  off  for  bad  con- 
due',  and  he's  swore  to  be  even  with  him." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  I  might  tele- 
graph to  Mr.  French,  and  bring  him  back,  but  he  has 
gone  on  important  business,  and  it  would  be  a  pity." 

"  It  would,  miss." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  said  the  girl,  "  and  if  you  think 
you  can  manage  till  Thursday  by  yourself  it  would  be 
better  to  do  nothing.  I  will  send  him  a  telegram  on 
Wednesday  to  make  sure  of  him  returning  on  Thurs- 
day." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Moriarty.  "  That'll  be  the  best 
way — and,  if  Black  Larry  comes  before  the  masther  is 
back,  Heaven  help  him !  " 

Moriarty  took  his  departure,  and  the  girl  turned  to 
the  window.  The  rain  was  falling  now,  "  the  long 
rain  of  these  old,  old  lands,  eternal,  fateful,  slow ! " 
Verhaeren's  verse  crossed  her  mind  as  she  looked  out 
at  the  lowering  sky  and  at  the  distant  mountains,  now 
half-veiled  in  clouds.  As  she  looked  the  naked  tree 
branches  all  bent  one  way,  as  if  pressed  down  by  an 
invisible  hand,  a  sheet  of  rain  obliterated  everything 
beyond  the  middle  distance  of  the  landscape,  and  every 
window  on  the  west  side  of  the  house  shook  and  rattled 
to  the  wind  that  had  suddenly  risen. 


124  GARRYOWEN 

She  went  upstairs  to  the  schoolroom,  where  Effie, 
kneeling  on  the  window-seat,  was  engaged  in  the  mo- 
notonous occupation  of  tracing  the  raindrops  on  the 
pane  with  her  finger. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

IT  rained  steadily  from  Monday  afternoon  till  Thurs- 
day morning,  and  then,  as  if  at  the  stroke  of  a  great 
broom,  the  clouds  broke  up  and  were  driven  in  piles 
over  the  hills,  leaving  the  sky  winter-blue  and  free; 
cloud  shadow  and  sunshine  chased  one  another  over  the 
land,  and  from  the  cliffs  the  sea  lay  foam-capped  and 
in  great  meadows  of  different  colour.  It  had  blown 
half  a  gale  on  Tuesday  night,  and  the  sea  was  fretting 
from  it  still.  Acres  of  tourmaline-coloured  water 
showed  where  the  "  deeps  "  lay  close  in  shore,  and  each 
glass-green  roller  came  running  in,  capped  with  foam 
and  shot  through  with  sunlight  till 

Boom! 

A  league-long  burst  of  spray  told  of  its  death,  and 
from  far  and  near  came  the  sound,  the  breathing  of 
the  coast,  like  the  breathing  of  a  leviathan  in  its  sleep. 

It  was  dark  when  the  train  from  Dublin  drew  in  at 
the  station  of  Cloyne,  and  Mr.  French  and  his  com- 
panion found  the  outside  car  waiting  for  them  in 
charge  of  Buck  Slane. 

Buck  was  a  helper  in  the  stable,  a  weedy-looking  in- 
dividual in  leggings,  with  a  high,  piping  voice,  red- 
rimmed  eyes,  and  an  apologetic  manner.  When  Buck 
spoke  to  you  on  any  subject,  he  seemed  to  be  apologis- 
ing for  it,  as  though  it  were  something  that  had  to  be 
mentioned  or  spoken  about  against  his  will. 
125 


126  GARRYOWEN 

"  Where's  Moriarty,  and  why  didn't  he  come  with 
the  car?  "  asked  Mr.  French. 

"  Plaze,  sorr,"  said  Buck,  "  Moriarty's  stuck  in  the 
stable." 

"  Stuck  in  the  where?  " 

"  In  the  stable,  son* — wid  the  horses.  He  hasn't  left 
them  a  minit  since  Monday  afternoon,  and  he  tould 
me  to  harness  the  mare  and  stick  her  in  the  car  and 
come  to  the  station." 

"All  right,"  said  French.  "Hop  up,  Dashwood. 
Here,  get  the  luggage  on  board,  Buck,  and  I'll  hold  the 
mare." 

A  couple  of  minutes  later  they  were  on  the  road  to 
Drumgool  under  the  light  of  a  winter  moon.  It  was 
the  road  along  which  Mr.  Dashwood  had  driven  that 
morning  with  Miss  Grimshaw,  when,  after  breakfast  at 
the  Station  Inn,  he  had  accompanied  her  to  Drumgool 
House.  Everything  on  the  road  recalled  her  in  that 
poignant  language  used  by  inanimate  things  when  they 
remind  us  of  the  people  we  love. 

He  had  spoken  no  word  about  her  to  French  since 
that  conversation  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Shel- 
bourne  Hotel,  and  French  had  spoken  no  word  to 
him.  French,  having  declared  his  half-formed  in- 
tention to  "  ask "  her  himself,  had  apparently  dis- 
missed her  from  his  mind.  I  doubt  if  ever  a  lover 
found  himself  in  a  more  peculiar  and  difficult  position 
than  that  which  was  beginning  to  surround  Mr.  Dash- 
wood.  French  brought  into  this  affair  a  mixture  of 
card-room  and  commercial  honesty  that  was  very  em- 
barrassing to  an  ordinary  rival. 


GARRYOWEN  127 

He  had  said  in  substance :  "  Here's  a  girl.  You're 
in  love  with  her.  I'm  not  going  to  do  a  mean  thing. 
I'm  going  to  take  you  to  my  house  and  put  you  to- 
gether, so  that  you  may  know  more  of  each  other.  If 
she  likes  you  better  than  me,  you  can  have  her.  If 
she  likes  me  better  than  you,  you  can't.  I  give  you  just 
the  same  chance  as  I  have  myself,  and  I  expect  you  to 
play  the  game." 

There  was  a  splendid  self-confidence  in  the  proposi- 
tion which  made  it  not  altogether  a  complimentary 
one,  but  there  was  also  a  fine  open-heartedness,  an  ab- 
sence of  that  essential  malice  of  love,  which  made  it 
less  a  proposition  than  a  law  of  conduct  with  all  sorts 
of  clauses. 

Generous  in  a  love  affair!  Men  may  be  generous  in 
sharing  money,  in  sharing  fame,  in  sharing  the  chance 
of  death,  but  in  sharing  the  chance  of  love — ah !  that's 
a  very  different  thing.  The  most  extreme  Socialist  has 
never  dared  to  propound  such  a  community  of  interests, 
and  yet  here  was  a  simple  Irish  gentleman  not  pro- 
pounding the  idea,  but  putting  it  in  practice,  and  as 
fine  deeds  are  the  fathers  of  fine  thoughts,  here  was 
an  ingenuous  lover,  in  the  form  of  Mr.  Dashwood,  de- 
termining to  play  the  game  and  take  no  advantage 
of  French. 

To  complete  the  matter,  here  was  Miss  Grimshaw, 
who  had  been  apprised  of  the  coming  of  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  as  a  guest,  by  wire,  completing  the  preparations 
for  the  reception  of  the  two  gentlemen,  and  with,  in  her 
heart,  an  equally  kindly  feeling  for  each. 

Doolan  had  caught  a  large  lobster  the  day  before, 


128  GARRYOWEN 

"blown  up  on  the  strand,"  and  this,  coral-red  and 
curled  on  a  dish,  flanked  a  round  of  cold  spiced  beef 
on  the  supper-table.  A  bright  fire  was  burning  in  the 
grate;  the  light  of  the  lamps  shone,  reflected  by  the 
ruby  of  port  and  claret  in  the  decanters  on  the  side- 
board; the  potatoes,  boiled  in  their  jackets,  were  being 
kept  hot  in  the  oven ;  and  everything  was  in  readiness 
for  the  expected  travellers,  who  were  late. 

As  Miss  Grimshaw  sat  by  the  fire  she  could  hear  the 
faint  boom  of  the  sea.  To  know  desolation  and  the 
blessing  of  a  visit,  you  must  live  in  the  extreme  west 
of  Ireland,  which,  I  take  it,  is  the  extreme  outside  edge 
of  European  civilisation;  and  after  three  days  of  rain, 
three  days  of  reading  the  day-before-yesterday's 
Freeman's  Journal,  and  "  Mrs.  Brown's  'Oliday  Out- 
ings," Miss  Grimshaw  was  in  the  frame  of  mind  to 
receive  a  visitor,  more  especially  when  that  visitor  took 
the  form  of  Bobby  Dashwood. 

Bobby  and  his  irresponsibilities  had  found  a  place  in 
her  heart — not  the  place  that  women  keep  for  lovers, 
but  the  place  they  keep  for  cats,  stray  dogs,  and  other 
people's  children ;  a  place,  all  the  same,  that  opens  into 
the  real  place,  an  ante-room  where,  if  a  man  can  ob- 
tain a  footing,  he  has  a  chance  of  being  shown  into 
the  boudoir.  Unfortunately  for  Bobby,  French  had 
a  place  there,  too ;  so  had  Norah,  the  cat,  and  Effie — 
quite  an  extraordinary  collection  of  people  and  ani- 
mals, but  only  two  men — French  and  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  Here  they  are,  miss,"  cried  Norah,  popping  her 
head  in  at  the  door,  "  the  car's  comin5  up  the  dhrive ! " 


GARRYOWEN  129 

Miss  Grimshaw  rose  from  the  fire,  and  came  out  into 
the  hall. 

She  saw  the  car  through  the  open  door,  and  the 
lamps  blazing,  and  next  moment  she  was  shaking  hands 
with  Bobby  Dashwood. 

"Where's  Mr.  French?"  asked  the  girl. 

"  He  jumped  down  at  the  stable  entrance,"  said  Mr. 
Dashwood,  wriggling  out  of  his  greatcoat,  "  and  went 
to  see  the  horses.  He  asked  me  to  come  in  and  tell 
you." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room. 

"You've  got  the  same  bedroom  that  you  had  be- 
fore," said  she — "  the  one  with  the  glimpse  of  the  sea. 
Mrs.  Driscoll  has  put  a  fire  there,  and  they've  been 
airing  sheets  and  things  all  day,  so  you  need  not  be 
afraid  of  catching  cold.  Hasn't  the  weather  been 
awful?  " 

"Awful!"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"You  met  Mr.  French  in  Dublin,  I  suppose?"  said 
the  girl. 

"  Yes,  I  met  him  in  Dublin.  Funny,  wasn't  it?  We 
were  staying  at  the  same  hotel,  and  I  was  coming  down 
here,  and  he  invited  me  to  stay  with  him." 

He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  warming  himself 
and  glancing  about  the  comfortable  room,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  manner  that  Miss  Grimshaw  could 
not  quite  make  out — an  almost  imperceptible  stiffness, 
a  want  of  "  spring."  It  was  as  though  he  were  on  his 
guard. 

"  Was  it  raining  in  Dublin?  " 


130  GARRYOWEN 

"  Yes,  most  of  the  time.  And  I  suppose  you've  been 
having  it  pretty  bad  here?  " 

"  Awful." 

She  was  dying  to  ask  him  why  he  had  come  over 
from  England  at  this  season  of  the  year;  why  he  had 
come  down  here.  Who  can  tell,  but  in  her  heart  she 
knew  the  reason  perfectly,  and,  knowing  it,  felt  per- 
plexed with  his  strange  manner  and  stiffness? 

They  talked  on  indifferent  matters — Effie  and  so 
forth — till  French  came  in.  He  had  interviewed  Mori- 
arty,  and  he  was  full  of  the  business  of  the  horses ;  and, 
strange  to  say,  with  the  entrance  of  French  Mr.  Dash- 
wood's  manner  completely  changed.  His  stiffness 
vanished,  and  he  became  his  old,  irresponsible,  joyous 
self  again. 

"  Think  of  it !  The  blackguards !  "  said  Mr.  French 
as  he  carved  the  round  of  beef.  "  Coming  to  try  their 
tricks  on  the  horses !  Moriarty  hasn't  left  his  eye  off 
Garryowen  since  I  left,  begad!  I'll  pension  him  for 
life  if  I  win  the  City  and  Sub.  But  think  of  the  black- 
heartedness  of  it !  " 

He  went  into  the  details  we  know,  Susie  Gallagher's 
"  information,"  and  the  fact  that  it  was  almost  certain 
Black  Larry  would  try  the  business  that  night. 

Mr.  Dashwood's  eyes  sparkled  as  he  listened. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  he  asked. 

"Catch  him  if  I  can,"  said  French.  "There 
mustn't  be  any  shooting.  I  don't  want  any  police  busi- 
ness, for  then  I'd  be  held  as  a  witness  at  the  assizes. 
But  if  I  catch  him,  I'll  give  him  something  to  remem- 
ber to-night  by,  and  let  him  go." 


GARRYOWEN  131 

"  You'll  let  me  help?  "  said  Bobby. 

"  Of  course  I'll  let  you  help.  And  so  it  was  Susie 
Gallagher  brought  the  news  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "I  told  old  Mrs. 
Moriarty — you  remember  that  day  you  took  me  to 
see  her? — well,  I  told  her  to  let  me  know  if  she  heard 
of  any  mischief.  I  guess  she  kept  her  ears  open,  for 
I  gave  her  a  shilling,  and  promised  her  five  if  she  got 
any  information.  You'll  have  to  pay  that." 

French  chuckled. 

"  Ever  since  you've  entered  the  house,"  said  he, 
"  you've  been  putting  things  straight,  and  saving  us 
all  from  ourselves.  Look  here,  now,"  said  Mr.  French, 
resting  his  elbow  on  the  table  and  checking  off  the 
items  with  the  index  finger  of  his  right  hand  on  the 
fingers  of  his  left.  "  You've  helped  to  fix  the  bailiff. 
That's  Number  1." 

Mr.  Dashwood  applauded,  and  Mr.  French  con- 
tinued. 

"  You  put  old  Kate  Moriarty  on  the  scent  of  these 
scoundrels.  That's  Number  2.  You  put  Effie  on  her 
legs,  and  you've  freed  the  house  of  Dick  Giveen.  That's 
Number  3.  And  you  put  into  my  head  what  to  do 
about  Garryowen.  That's  Number  4." 

"  And  now,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  I'm  going  to 
bed,  and  to  leave  you  two  to  your  pipes.  And  that's 
Number  5.  I  suppose  you  will  sit  up  to  catch  this 
person?  " 

"  We  will,"  said  French. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Miss  GRIMSHAW'S  room  was  situated  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  overlooking  the  kitchen  garden.  Any  sound 
from  the  stable-yard  would  reach  it,  and  she  determined 
to  lie  awake  and  listen.  Moriarty's  description  of  the 
expected  desperado,  "  over  six  fut  and  as  black  as  a 
flue-brush,"  seemed  to  promise  developments.  Like 
most  women,  she  had  a  horror  of  fighting,  and,  like 
most  women,  fighting  had  a  fascination  for  her.  She 
had  no  fear  of  the  result.  Mr.  French,  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  Moriarty,  and  the  stable  helper,  not  to  mention 
Andy,  formed  a  combination  bad  to  beat,  even  against 
a  dozen  Black  Larrys. 

All  the  same,  there  was  a  certain  heart-catching  ex- 
citement about  the  business  not  altogether  unpleasur- 
able,  and  never  did  the  silence  of  the  great  old  house 
seem  more  freighted  with  the  voices  of  the  past,  never 
did  the  ticking  of  the  huge  old  clock  on  the  landing 
outside  seem  more  pronounced  than  just  now  as,  lying 
in  bed  with  a  candle  burning  on  the  table  by  her  side 
and  "  Tartarin  of  Tarascon "  open  in  her  hand,  she 
listened. 

The  bed  she  was  lying  in  was  the  bed  that  once  had 
supported  Dan  O'Connell's  portly  person.  The  tent- 
like  curtains  had  been  removed,  so  that  one  could 
breathe  in  it,  but  the  pillars  remained,  and  the  head- 
piece and  the  carvings.  It  was  less  a  bed  than  a  coign 
of  history,  and  more  conducive  to  thought  than  sleep. 
132 


GARRYOWEN  133 

From  this  bed  and  its  suggestions,  from  Dromgool, 
from  Ireland,  the  delightful  Tartarin  led  Miss  Grim- 
shaw  to  the  land  of  plane-trees  and  blue  sky.  Mock 
heroics  are  the  finest  antidote  for  tragic  thoughts,  and 
they  fitted  the  situation  now,  had  she  known  it,  to  a 
charm. 

Now  she  was  at  Tarascon.  Tartarin,  leaving  his 
house  in  the  moonlight,  armed  to  the  teeth  against  im- 
aginary foes,  led  her  down  the  white  road,  past  the 
little  gardens,  odorous  as  bouquets,  to  the  house  of 
Mme.  Bezuguet,  whence  issued  the  voices  of  Costecalde, 
the  gunmaker,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  Nimes  piano. 

Now  she  was  seated  beside  him,  and  his  guns  and  im- 
plements of  the  chase,  in  the  old  dusty  African  stage 
coach,  bound  for  Blidah,  listening  to  the  old  coach's 
complaining  voice. 

"  Ah !  my  good  Monsieur  Tartarin,  I  did  not  come 
out  here  of  my  own  free  will,  I  assure  you.  Once  the 
railway  to  Beaucaire  was  finished,  I  was  of  no  more  use 
there,  and  they  packed  me  off  to  Africa." 

Miss  Grimshaw  paused  in  her  reading.  Was  that  a 
shout  from  the  night  outside  ?  The  clock  on  the  land- 
ing, gathering  itself  up  for  the  business  of  striking 
with  a  deep  humming  sound,  began  to  strike.  It  struck 
twelve,  and  at  the  last  leisurely  and  sledge-hammer 
stroke  resumed  its  monotonous  ticking.  The  faint  boom 
of  the  sea  filled  the  night,  but  all  else  was  silence,  and 
the  old  stage-coach  continued  her  complaint. 

"  And  now  I  have  to  sleep  in  the  open  air,  in  the 
courtyard  of  a  caravanserai,  exposed  to  all  the  winds 
of  heaven.  At  night  jackals  and  hyenas  come  sniffing 


134.  GARRYOWEN 

round  my  boxes,  and  tramps,  who  fear  the  evening 
dew,  seek  refuge  in  my  compartments.  Such  is  the  life 
I  lead,  my  worthy  friend,  and  I  suppose  it  will  continue 
till  the  day  when,  blistered  by  the  sun  and  rotted  by  the 
damp,  I  shall  fall  to  pieces,  a  useless  heap,  on  some  bit 
of  road,  when  the  Arabs  will  make  use  of  the  remains 
of  my  old  carcase  to  boil  their  kousskouss." 

"Blidah!  Blidah!"  shouted  the  conductor  as  he 
opened  the  door. 

Miss  Grimshaw  awoke.  The  candle  had  burnt  itself 
out,  and  a  ray  of  early  morning  sunlight  was  peeping 
in  through  the  blinds. 

She  could  still  hear  the  clank  of  the  old  stage-coach 
— or  was  it  imagination?  She  rubbed  her  eyes. 

Yes,  there  it  came  again.  The  window  was  half 
open,  and  the  sound  came  from  the  kitchen  garden  be- 
low— a  metallic  sound  that  had  broken  through  her 
sleep,  filling  her  dreams  with  pictures  of  the  Blidah 
coach  and  the  illustrious  Tartarin,  with  his  guns,  hunt- 
ing-knives, and  powder-horns. 

She  sprang  out  of  bed,  went  to  the  window,  pulled 
aside  the  curtains,  and  looked  out. 

In  the  kitchen  garden  down  below  she  saw  an  object 
that  had  once  been  a  man — more  desperate  even  than 
the  immortal  Tartarin.  The  once-man  was  on  all- 
fours  ;  he  could  not  get  on  his  feet  because  his  ankles 
were  hobbled  together  with  a  piece  of  rope.  He  could 
not  untie  the  rope  because  on  each  of  his  hands  was 
firmly  tied  a  boxing-glove.  Try  to  untie  a  knot  with 
your  hands  encased  in  boxing-gloves,  if  you  wish  to 


GARRYOWEN  135 

realise  nightmare  helplessness  in  its  acutest  form.  A 
tin  stable  bucket  was  tied  down  over  the  head  of  the 
figure,  and,  as  a  last  artistic  touch  one  of  old  Ryan's 
cow's  tails  was  tied  to  a  band  round  the  waist  and  hung 
down  behind. 

The  creature  was  trying  to  get  out  of  the  kitchen 
igarden.  Miss  Grimshaw  coud  not  help  thinking  of  the 
blind  and  hopeless  antics  of  an  insect  imprisoned  under 
a  wine-glass  as  she  watched.  The  garden,  strongly 
railed  in,  formed  a  sort  of  pound  hopelessly  ungetout- 
able. 

The  whole  thing  seemed  so  like  a  joke  that  the  girl 
at  the  window  for  a  moment  did  not  connect  it  with 
the  obvious.  Opening  the  window  more,  she  leaned 
further  out. 

"  Hi !  "  cried  Miss  Grimshaw.  "  What  are  you  do- 
ing there?" 

The  thing  rose  up  on  its  knees,  the  boxing-gloves, 
like  great  paws,  seized  the  bucket  on  either  side,  in  a 
frantic  endeavour  to  wrench  it  off,  failed,  and  then 
from  the  bucket  broke  a  volume  of  language  that 
caused  the  listener  to  draw  hastily  in  and  shut  the 
window. 

She  guessed. 

At  this  moment  eight  o'clock  struck  from  the  land- 
ing, and  Norah  knocked  at  the  door  with  hot  water. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  of  asking  the  servant  the 
meaning  of  it  all.  Then  she  decided  not. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  entered  the  dining-room, 
where  breakfast  was  laid.  Mr.  French  and  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  were  already  there,  both  spick  and  span  and  look- 


136  GARRYOWEN 

ing  like  people  who  had  enjoyed  an  undisturbed  night's 
rest.  But  there  was  a  jubilant  look  in  Mr.  Dashwood's 
face  and  a  twinkle  in  Mr.  French's  eye  such  as  seldom 
appears  on  the  face  or  in  the  eye  of  man  before  break- 
fast. 

During  the  meal  the  conversation  turned  upon  in- 
different matters.  Mr.  Dashwood  had  several  attacks 
of  choking,  but  Mr.  French  seemed  quite  unmoved. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  and  cigarettes  were  lit,  Mr. 
French,  who  had  been  scanning  through  his  letters, 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  bell-pull  which  was  close 
to  him. 

"  Norah,"  said  Mr.  French  when  that  damsel  ap- 
peared, "  go  down  to  the  stable  and  send  up  Moriarty." 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  Miss  Grimshaw,  who  had  been 
preparing  to  leave  the  room,  waited. 

A  few  minutes  passed;  then  came  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  Moriarty,  cap  in  hand,  stood  before  his  mas- 
ter. 

"  Moriarty,"  said  Mr.  French,  "  there's  a  pig  got 
into  the  kitchen  garden." 

"A  pig,  sorr! " 

"  Yes,  it's  escaped  down  here  from  Cloyne.  At  least 
I'm  going  to  send  it  back  to  Cloyne.  Get  the  cart." 

"  Yes,  sorr." 

"And  a  pig-net.  Get  it  into  the  cart  with  the  net 
Over  it  and  take  it  to  Cloyne.  I  don't  know  who  it 
belongs  to,  so  just  dump  it  in  the  market-place.  This 
is  market-day,  so  there'll  be  some  one  to  claim  it,  or  it 
will  find  its  way  home." 

"  Yes,  sorr." 


GARRYOWEN  137 

"  And,  see  here,  bring  the  cart  round  to  the  door 
before  you  start." 

"  Yes,  sorr." 

Moriarty  departed. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  French,  "  let's  talk  business.  Miss 
Grimshaw,  we're  leaving  Ireland  to-morrow — you  and 
I  and  Effie  and  Garryowen,  the  servants,  and  all.  I've 
got  a  place 

"To  train  Garryowen?" 

"  Yes,  and  here's  the  man  that's  got  me  it.  It's  in 
Sussex,  down  at  a  place  called  Crowsnest.  There  are 
too  many  pigs  in  Ireland,  poking  their  noses  into  my 
affairs,  to  do  any  good  with  the  business  here." 

"  Good ! "  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  with  a  rising  colour. 
To  escape  from  the  rain,  and  the  awful  loneliness  of 
Drumgool  had  been  the  chief  desire  of  her  heart  for 
days  past.  She  knew  Sussex,  and  loved  the  country, 
and  a  great  feeling  of  gratitude  towards  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  the  provider  of  this  means  of  escape,  welled  up 
in  her  heart. 

"  So,"  said  Mr.  French,  "  we'll  find  our  work  cut  out 
to  pack  and  all  before  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. I'm  sending  Andy  and  the  horses  on  by  this 
night's  train  to  Dublin;  he'll  put  up  with  them  at 
Bourke's  livery  stables.  I'm  leaving  only  Buck  Slane 
and  Doolan  behind  to  look  after  the  house.  Janes,  my 
agent,  will  pay  them  their  wages.  I'm  not  even  telling 
Janes  where  I'm  going.  I  want  to  make  a  clean  sweep. 
I'm  safe  till  the  debt  to  Lewis  becomes  due.  If  that 
beast  of  a  Giveen  knew  my  address  he'd  put  Lewis' 
man  on  to  me  the  minute  he  came  here  claiming  the 


138  GARRYOWEN 

money.  I  must  cut  myself  off  as  completely  from  the 
place  as  if  I  were  dead." 

"  Well,  there's  one  thing,"  said  the  girl.  "  If  you 
can  get  away  from  here  without  any  one  knowing 
where  you  are  going  to,  they'll  never  dream  of  looking 
for  you  in  Sussex.  I  shouldn't  think  they  know  the 
name  of  the  place  here.  But  can  you?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  must  take  tickets  at  the  station  here. 
You  must  take  tickets  to  Dublin,  first  of  all.  Well, 
that's  a  clue  to  where  you  are  going." 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  said  Mr.  French,  with  a 
chuckle.  "  I'm  going  to  take  our  tickets  to  Tullagh ; 
that's  half  way.  The  express  stops  at  Tullagh,  and 
I'll  hop  out  of  the  train  there  and  book  on  to  Dublin. 
Mr.  Dashwood  here  is  going  on  with  the  horses  to- 
night, and  then  on  to  Crowsnest  to  have  the  house 
ready.  Faith,  I  never  can  thank  him  for  what  he's 
done  or  what  he's  going  to  do." 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  said  Dashwood,  "  I  don't  want 
thanks.  It's  the  greatest  lark  I  ever  came  across.  I 
wouldn't  have  lost  last  night  for  a  thousand  pounds.  I 
mean,  you  know,  it's  tremendous  fun ;  beats  a  comic 
opera  to  fits." 

"  Please,  sir,"  came  Norah's  voice  at  the  door,  "  the 
cart's  round  and  waiting." 

Mr.  French  rose  to  his  feet  and  led  the  way  from  the 
room,  followed  by  the  others. 

At  the  hall  door  steps  a  manure  cart  was  drawn  up. 
In  the  cart  was  something  covered  with  a  pig-net.  Doo- 
lan,  whip  in  hand,  was  standing  at  the  horse's  head. 


GARRYOWEN  139 

"  Let  up !  "  came  a  voice  from  the  cart.  "  What  are 
yiz  doin'  wid  me?  Where  am  I,  at  all,  at  all?  Oh,  but 
I'll  pay  yiz  out  for  this !  I'll  have  the  laa  on  yiz — and 
— and — yer  sowls !  " 

"  Shut  your  ears,"  said  Mr.  French  to  the  girl ;  then 
he  took  Doolan's  whip,  and  with  the  butt  of  it  prodded 
the  thing  in  the  cart.  What  seemed  a  great  tin  snout 
resented  this  treatment.  Then  the  cart  moved  off, 
Doolan  at  the  horse's  head,  and  disappeared  down  the 
drive. 

"Did  you  see  what  was  in  the  cart?"  asked  Mr. 
French  when  Miss  Grimshaw  uncovered  her  ears. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  saw  it  in  the  garden 
this  morning,  and  I  spoke  to  it,  and  asked  it  what  it 
was  doing,  and — well,  I  don't  wonder  at  your  wanting 
to  leave  Ireland." 

"  Not  while  there's  things  like  that  in  it,"  said  the 
master  of  Drumgool,  following  Doolan  and  his  charge 
with  his  eyes  till  they  disappeared  from  sight.  *'  And 
now,  let's  get  to  work." 

The  sunlight  of  the  early  morning  had  vanished,  and 
almost  as  the  cart  and  its  contents  turned  from  the 
avenue  drive  into  the  road  the  rain  began  to  come  down 
again  in  great  sheets — thunderous  pourings,  as  if  to 
make  up  for  lost  time.  But  it  was  a  merry  rain,  at 
least  in  the  ears  of  the  girl.  "  You're  going,  you're 
going ! "  The  rain  beat  a  tattoo  to  the  words  on  the 
zinc  roof  of  outhouse  and  window-pane.  "  To-morrow," 
slobbered  the  overflowing  water-butts,  and  "  Sussex  " 
hissed  the  schoolroom  fire,  as  the  raindrops  down  the 
chimney  hit  the  burning  coals. 


140  GARRYOWEN 

No  one  but  a  woman  knows  the  things  to  be  done  in 
a  sudden  disruption  of  a  household  like  this.  "  Every- 
thing must  be  covered  up,  and  everything  must  be 
turned  over,"  is  a  broad  axiom  that  only  just  covers 
the  situation  when  a  house  is  to  be  left  uninhabited  for 
a  number  of  months.  That  is  to  say,  carpets  must  be 
taken  up,  beaten,  and  folded,  pictures  and  looking- 
glasses  taken  down,  covered  in  brown  paper,  and  placed 
on  the  floor.  A  sort  of  spring  cleaning,  petrified  half- 
way through  and  left  in  a  state  of  suspension,  is  the 
ideal  aimed  at  by  the  careful  housewife. 

Miss  Grimshaw  never  had  possessed  a  house  of  her 
own,  but  she  was  descended  from  long  generations  of 
careful  housewives,  and  she  had  an  instinct  for  what 
ought  to  be  done.  But  she  had  also  a  clear  brain  that 
recognised  the  impossible  when  it  came  before  her.  To 
put  Drumgool  in  order  in  twelve  working  hours,  and 
with  a  handful  of  disorganised  domestics,  was  impos- 
sible, and  she  recognised  the  fact. 

So  the  carpets  were  to  be  left  unbeaten,  the  pictures 
still  hanging.  Doolan  had  orders  to  light  fires  in  the 
rooms  every  week,  and  to  be  sure  to  take  care  not  to 
burn  the  house  down. 

At  four  o'clock,  in  a  burst  of  sunset  which  lit  up  the 
heaving  Atlantic,  the  rain-stricken  land,  and  the  great 
hills  unveiled  for  a  moment  of  clouds,  Mr.  Dashwood 
departed  for  the  station.  Andy  and  the  horses  had 
left  at  three. 

"  I'll  have  the  bungalow  jolly  and  comfortable  for 
you,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  You'll  be  there  day  after 
to-morrow  evening,  if  you  stay  in  London  for  a  few 


GARRYOWEN  141 

hours'  rest.  Send  me  a  wire  when  you  reach  Euston. 
Well,  good  luck!" 

"  Good  luck! "  said  Mr.  French. 

"  Good-bye !  "  said  the  girl. 

They  watched  the  car  driving  down  the  avenue,  the 
wheel-spokes  flashing  in  the  sunlight.  Then  they  turned 
back  into  the  house. 

**  To-morrow !  "  thought  Miss  Grimshaw,  as  she  lay 
in  bed  that  night  listening  to  the  rain  that  had  resumed 
business  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  corridor 
making  answer  to  the  rain.  "  Oh,  to-morrow !  " 

Then  she  fell  to  thinking.  What  was  the  matter  with 
the  two  men?  When  she  and  they  were  gathered  to- 
gether they  were  as  jolly  as  possible,  but  the  instant 
she  found  herself  alone  with  one  of  them,  that  one 
wilted — at  least,  became  subdued,  lost  his  sprightli- 
ness  and  gaiety.  More  than  that,  each,  when  alone 
with  her,  became,  if  the  subject  turned  that  way,  the 
trumpeter  of  the  other's  praises.  Yet  when  they  were 
all  together  they  would  try  as  much  as  they  could  to 
outshine  each  other,  Mr.  French  setting  up  his  wit 
against  Mr.  Dashwood,  Mr.  Dashwood  retaliating. 
Just  as  two  male  birds  before  a  hen  strut  and  spread 
their  tails,  so  these  two  gentlemen  would  show  off 
their  mental  feathers  when  together.  Parted  they 
drooped. 

A  bell-man  could  not  have  told  her  the  fact  that  they 
had  lost  their  hearts  more  plainly  than  intuition  stated 
the  fact  when,  all  three  together  at  afternoon  tea,  just 
before  Mr.  Dashwood's  departure  for  the  station,  that 
young  gentleman  with  a  plate  of  toast  in  his  hand,  had 


142  GARRYOWEN 

dallied  attendance  upon  her,  while  Mr.  French  had 
urged  the  dubious  charm  of  crumpets.  Yet,  behold! 
on  the  departure  of  the  younger  man  the  elder  had 
presumably  found  his  heart  again,  and  at  supper  had 
become  almost  tiresome  in  his  almost  fulsome  praise  of 
Dashwood. 

It  was  horribly  perplexing. 

A  woman's  intuitive  knowledge  teaches  her  how  to 
act  in  every  situation  love  can  place  her  in,  from  the 
first  glance  to  the  last  embrace;  her  male  and  female 
ancestors  whisper  to  her  what  to  do  down  the  long 
whispering  gallery  of  the  past.  They  whispered  noth- 
ing now.  Miss  Grimshaw  had  relatives  long  dead,  who, 
fur-covered,  tailed,  and  living  in  trees,  had  dropped  co- 
coanuts  on  the  heads  of  rivals;  these  gentlemen  and 
ladies  could  give  her  no  advice.  Cave-dwelling  ances- 
tors, whose  propositions  were  urged  with  stone  clubs, 
were  equally  dumb.  Even  her  more  near  and  culti- 
vated forebears  had  nothing  to  say. 

It  was  an  entirely  new  situation  in  love.  Two  men 
"  playing  the  game,"  and  determined  to  take  no  mean 
advantage  one  of  the  other — even  Love  himself  found 
the  situation  strange,  and  had  no  suggestions  to  offer. 

The  next  morning  was  dull,  but  fine.  The  sky  had 
lifted,  thinned,  and  become  mackerelled.  Between  the 
ribs  of  cloud  a  faint,  bluish  tinge  here  and  there  told 
of  the  blue  above.  The  mountains  sat  calm  and  grey 
upon  the  horizon.  They  had  drawn  a  great  way  off  as 
if  to  make  way  for  the  coming  sunshine.  Fine  weather 
was  at  hand. 

In  the  hall  of  Drumgool   the  luggage   was  piled, 


GARRYOWEN  143 

waiting  for  Doolan  and  the  wagonette.  The  servants 
and  the  luggage  were  to  go  in  the  wagonette,  and  so 
carefully  had  Mr.  French  thought  out  the  problem  be- 
fore him  that  he  had  hired  the  horses  and  the  wagonette 
the  day  before,  not  from  Cloyne,  but  from  Inchkilin,  a 
small  town  twelve  miles  south  of  Drumgool.  The  Danc- 
ing Mistress  and  the  outside  car  were  to  be  sold  off 
by  his  agent,  and  the  money  held  till  his  return. 

The  train  started  at  eleven.  At  eight  o'clock  the 
wagonette  and  its  contents  drove  away  from  the  house, 
and  at  ten  minutes  to  nine  the  car,  with  Mr.  French, 
Miss  Grimshaw,  and  Effie  followed.  Doolan  was  driv- 
ing, and  just  as  they  were  turning  out  of  the  avenue 
the  whole  east  side  of  Drumgool  House  lit  up  to  a 
burst  of  sunshine  from  over  the  hills. 

It  seemed  a  lucky  omen.  That  and  the  lovely  win- 
ter's morning  through  which  they  were  driving  put  the 
party  in  good  spirits,  and  Doolan's  deafness  allowed 
them  to  talk  as  freely  as  they  liked  about  their  af- 
fairs. 

"  I  hope  Dick  Giveen  hasn't  seen  the  wagonette," 
said  French.  "  If  he  has,  he'll  be  following  to  the 
station  to  find  out  what's  up.  If  he  sees  us,  it  won't  so 
much  matter,  for  he'll  think,  maybe,  we  arc  only  going 
for  a  drive,  but  the  servants  and  the  luggage  would 
give  the  whole  show  away." 

"Has  he  any  sort  of  trap  to  follow  us  in?"  asked 
Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  He  has  an  old  shandrydan  of  a  basket  pony-car- 
riage. Maybe  he's  not  up  yet,  for  he's  not  an  early 
riser.  Anyhow,  we'll  see  when  we  pass  the  bungalow." 


14*  GARRYOWEN 

They  were  drawing  near  Drumboyne  now ;  the  bun- 
galow inhabited  by  Mr.  Giveen  lay  at  the  other  end  of 
the  tiny  village.  It  was  a  green-painted  affair,  with 
an  outhouse  for  the  pony  and  trap ;  a  green-painted 
palisading,  about  five  feet  high,  surrounded  house  and 
garden,  and  as  the  car  passed  through  the  village  and 
approached  the  danger  zone,  Miss  Grimshaw  felt  a 
not  unpleasant  constriction  about  the  heart.  Effie 
seemed  to  feel  it,  too,  for  she  clasped  "  Mrs.  Brown's 
'Oliday  Outin's,"  which  she  had  brought  to  read  in  the 
train,  closer  under  her  arm,  and  clasped  Miss  Grim- 
shaw's  hand. 

There  was  no  sign  of  the  ogre,  however,  in  the  front 
garden,  and  the  girl  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  till  French, 
who  had  stood  half  up  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  prem- 
ises, suddenly  sat  down  again,  with  a  look  of  alarm  on 
his  face,  and  cried  to  Doolan  to  whip  up. 

"What  is  it?  "  asked  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  The  blackguard's  putting  the  old  pony  to,"  said 
Mr.  French.  "  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the  back 
yard.  He's  got  wind  of  our  going,  and  he's  after  us. 
Whip  up,  Doolan." 

"  There's  not  much  use  whipping  up,"  said  Miss 
Grimshaw,  "  for  the  train  won't  go  till  eleven.  The 
question  now  is,  Can  his  old  pony  get  him  to  the  sta- 
tion by  eleven?" 

"  If  it  does,"  cried  French,  now  in  a  towering  pas- 
sion, «  I'll— I'll— b'Heaven,  I'll  shoot  him!" 

"  You  haven't  anything  to  shoot  him  with.  Let's 
think  of  what's  best  to  be  done." 


GARRYOWEN  145 

"  Doolan ! "  shouted  French  into  the  hairy  ear  of 
the  driver,  "  do  you  know  Mr.  Giveen's  old  pony?" 

"Do  I  know  Misther  Giveen's  ould  pony?"  creaked 
Doolan.  "  Sure,  who'd  know  her  better?  Do  I  know 
Misther  Giveen's  ould  pony?  Sure,  I  knew  her  mother 
before  she  was  born.  An  ould  skewbal',  she  was,  till 
Micky  Meehan  battered  her  to  death  dhrivin'  roun' 
the  counthryside,  wid  that  ould  cart  he  got  from  Buck 
Sheelan  of  the  inn,  before  he  died  of  the  dhrink,  and 
dhrunk  he  was  when  he  sould  it." 

"Bother  Buck  Sheelan!  Can  the  old  pony  get 
Mr.  Giveen  to  the  station  by  eleven?  " 

"  D'you  mane,  can  it  get  him  from  his  house  to  the 
station,  sorr?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  sorr,  it  all  dipinds.  She's  a  rockit  to  go  if 
she's  in  the  mind  for  it ;  but  if  she's  set  aginst  goin', 
you  may  lather  the  lights  out  of  her,  and  she'll  only 
land  you  in  the  ditch.  But  if  she's  aisy  in  her  mind 
and  agrayable,  faith!  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  she  could, 
for  that  ould  clothesbasket  of  Misther  Giveen's  doesn't 
weigh  more'n  a  feather." 

"  Curse  him  and  his  clothesbasket ! "  cried  French. 
"  Whip  up !  " 

To  be  opposed  by  a  villain  is  not  nearly  so  vexing 
as  to  be  thwarted  by  a  fool,  and  the  vision  of  Dick 
Giveen  in  his  basket  carriage,  soft,  malevolent  and 
pursuing,  filled  French  with  such  a  depth  of  rage  that 
had  he  possessed  a  gun  his  better  nature  would  cer- 
tainly have  made  him  fling  his  ammunition  away  over 


146  GARRYOWEN 

the  nearest  hedge  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  temp- 
tation. 

"Look!"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "isn't  that  smoke 
away  over  there — Cloyne!  We'll  soon  be  there  now, 
and  there  is  no  use  in  worrying.  If  he  does  follow  us, 
we'll  manage  to  give  him  the  slip  at  Tullagh." 

"  That'll  mean  the  whole  lot  of  us,  servants  and  all, 
will  have  to  get  out  at  Tullagh,  and  lose  the  train  and 
stay  the  night;  and  then  we're  not  sure  of  escaping 
him.  He'll  stick  to  us  like  a  burr.  You  don't  know 
Dick  Giveen.  Who  the  divil  ever  invented  relations  ?  " 

Miss  Grimshaw  could  not  answer  Mr.  French's 
question  as  to  who  invented  relations  which  many  a 
man  has,  no  doubt,  asked,  and  no  more  was  said  till  the 
long,  dreary  street  of  Cloyne,  destitute  of  life  and 
colour,  lay  before  them. 

It  was  fifteen  minutes  to  eleven  when  they  reached 
the  station.  The  train  was  drawn  up  at  the  platform. 
Mrs.  Driscoll  and  Norah  had  taken  their  seats  in  a 
third-class  carriage,  and  Moriarty  was  seeing  the  lug- 
gage stowed  in  the  van. 

French  took  the  tickets,  chose  a  first-class  compart- 
ment, and  the  hand-bags  and  wraps  having  been  stowed 
in  it,  they  walked  up  and  down  the  platform,  waiting 
and  watching. 

There  was  one  point  in  their  favour.  Mr.  Giveen's 
meanness  amounted  with  this  gentleman  almost  to  a 
monomania.  He  would  do  incredible  things  to  save  a 
half-penny.  Would  he  incur  the  expense  of  pursuit? 
Cannibalism  among  the  passions  is  a  law  in  the  mental 
world.  One  vice  often  devours  another  vice,  if  the 


GARRYOWEN  147 

other  vice  stands  between  the  devourer  and  its  ob- 
jective. Were  the  jaws  of  Mr.  Giveen's  spite  wide 
enough  to  engulf  his  meanness?  This  was  a  question 
that  Mr.  French  was  debating  vaguely  in  his  mind  as 
he  paced  the  platform  with  Miss  Grimshaw  and  Effie. 

A  regiment  of  live  Christmas  turkeys  were  being  en- 
trained, not  in  silence ;  the  engine  was  blowing  off 
steam ;  the  rattle  of  barrows,  the  clank  of  milk-cans — 
all  these  noises  made  it  impossible  to  hear  the  approach 
of  wheels  on  the  station  road. 

"  I  believe  we'll  do  it,"  said  Mr.  French,  looking  at 
his  watch,  which  pointed  to  five  minutes  to  the  hour. 
"  Anyhow,  we'll  be  off  in  five  minutes,  and  I'll  break 
the  beast's  head  at  Tullagh  if  he  does  follow  us." 

He  walked  down  the  train  to  the  third-class  carriage 
where  the  servants  were,  and  at  the  door  of  which  Mor- 
iarty  was  colloguing  with  Norah. 

He  told  Moriarty  in  a  few  words  of  the  pursuit,  and 
then  returned  to  his  own  compartment. 

"  Take  your  sates,  take  your  sates  for  Tullagh,  Kil- 
dare,  and  Dublin !  " 

The  van  door  was  shut  on  the  turkeys,  the  last  of  the 
luggage  was  in  the  train,  the  last  door  was  banged  to, 
and  the  train  was  just  beginning  to  move,  when  out  of 
the  ticket-office  entrance  rushed  Mr.  G'iveen  with  a 
ticket  in  his  hand.  He  had  asked  the  ticket-collector 
whero  Mr.  French  had  booked  to,  and,  being  told 
Tullagh,  had  done  likewise. 

He  had  just  time  to  reach  the  nearest  carriage  and 
jump  in  when  Moriarty,  who  had  been  observing  every- 
thing, interposed. 


148  GARRYOWEN 

"  Mr.  Giveen,  sorr,"  cried  Moriarty,  protruding  his 
head  and  shoulders  from  the  window  of  the  third-class 
carriage,  which  was  now  in  motion.  "  Mr.  Giveen, 
sorr,  here's  the  shillin*  I  owe  you." 

A  shilling  fell  on  the  platform  at  Mr.  Giveen's  feet. 
He  stooped  to  grab  it  as  it  rolled  in  a  leisurely  man- 
ner towards  the  booking-office  door,  missed  it,  pursued 
it,  and  was  lost. 

At  least  he  lost  the  train. 

Moriarty's  profound  knowledge  of  the  psychology 
of  the  horse  often  stood  him  in  good  stead  when  deal- 
ing with  higher  animals — or  lower. 


CHAPTER   XV 

CROWSNEST  lies  upon  a  hill.  It  consists  of  a  post- 
office,  a  tiny  butcher's  shop,  a  greengrocer's,  an  Italian 
warehouse,  and  a  church.  The  London  road  climbs  the 
hill,  passes  through  the  village,  descends  the  hill,  and 
vanishes  from  sight.  Trees  swallow  it  up.  Century- 
old  elms  cavern  it  over.  When  the  great-grandfathers 
of  these  elms  were  young  the  Roman  road  leading  over 
the  hill  to  the  sea  was  old.  As  it  was  then,  so  is  it  now, 
and  so  will  it  be  when  these  elms  are  coffin-boards,  en- 
closing the  bones  of  vanished  and  long-forgotten 
people. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  passes  a  nameless  river,  which 
the  Roman  road  crosses  by  a  bridge  whose  stones  are 
as  old  as  the  road  itself.  On  a  summer's  afternoon, 
leaning  one's  elbow  comfortably  on  the  moss-grown 
balustrade  of  this  bridge,  the  river  and  the  road  hold 
one's  mind  between  them;  the  river  leaping  amid  the 
weed-green  stones,  here  in  the  cave-like  twilight  of  the 
foliage,  here  diamond  bright  where  the  sun  dazzle 
strikes  through  the  leaves;  the  road  steadfast  and  si- 
lent, with  a  silence  which  the  motor-horn  cannot  break 
— a  silence  that  has  been  growing  and  feeding  upon 
life  since  the  time  of  Tiberius. 

The  place  is  tremulous  and  vibrating  with  life ;  the 
wagtail  by  the  water,  the  water  itself,  the  leaves  danc- 
149 


150  GARRYOWEN 

ing  to  the  breeze,  and  the  birds  amid  the  leaves :  the 
lost  butterfly,  the  gauze-blue  dragonfly,  the  midges  in 
their  interminable  dance,  all  keep  up  an  accompani- 
ment to  the  flute-like  tune  of  the  river.  Then,  as  one 
muses,  the  thousand  snippets  of  beauty  and  life,  gay 
and  free  and  ephemeral,  that  make  up  the  beauty  of 
a  summer's  afternoon,  suddenly,  as  if  touched  by  a 
magic  wand,  lose  their  ephemeral  nature  and  become 
their  immortal  selves. 

"  They  were  old  when  I  was  young.  The  wind  blew 
their  songs  in  the  faces  of  the  legionaries ;  before  the 
phalanx  flew  the  butterfly,  and  the  water  wagtails  be- 
fore the  glittering  eagles." 

Thus  speaks  the  road  in  answer  to  the  river,  making 
the  charm  of  this  place — a  charm  felt  even  by  the 
teamsters  of  a  summer's  afternoon  as  they  halt  their 
horses  for  a  rest. 

On  either  side  of  the  road,  down  here,  stretch  woods ; 
mellow-hearted  English  woods,  nut  copses,  beech  glades, 
willow  brakes ;  the  home  of  the  squirrel  and  the  pheas- 
ant and  the  wood-dove.  The  cork-screw  note  of  the 
cock  pheasant  answers  the  poetical  lamentation  of  the 
dove;  that  caressing  sound,  soothing,  sleep-drugged, 
and  fatuous. 

In  spring  the  children  of  Crowsnest  come  here  for 
the  wood  violets  burning  blue  amid  the  brown  last  au- 
tumn leaves ;  the  glades  are  purple  with  the  wild  hya- 
cinths, and  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  here  is  a  thing  never 
to  be  forgotten.  In  autumn  the  children  come  for  nuts. 
No  poem  of  tone  or  word  conceived  by  man  can  ap- 
proach the  poetry  of  these  glades ;  no  picture  their 


GARRYOWEN  151 

simple  beauty ;  they  are  the  home  of  Oberon  and  Ti- 
tania,  and  they  are  rented  by  Colonel  Bingham. 

The  Colonel  lives,  or  lived  at  the  time  of  this  story, 
at  the  Hall,  which  is  the  chief  house  of  the  neighbour- 
hood— a  neighbourhood  parcelled  up  into  small  coun- 
try seats.  Three  acres  and  a  house  would  about  con- 
stitute one  of  these  seats,  and  they  stretch  right  round 
the  hill  of  Crowsnest,  invading  even  the  rise  of  the 
Downs. 

The  bungalow  is  situated  on  the  Downs ;  a  good 
road  of  fairly  easy  ascent  leads  up  to  it,  and  looking 
from  the  verandah  of  the  bungalow  you  can  see,  below, 
the  roofs  of  all  the  country  seats,  the  walls  forming 
their  frontiers,  and,  with  a  good  glass,  the  seat-holders 
promenading  in  their  gardens. 

From  here  the  Roman  road  looks  like  a  white  cotton 
ribbon ;  the  woods  and  gardens,  the  tennis  lawns  no 
bigger  than  Milliard-tables,  the  red-tiled  houses  no 
larger  than  rabbit  hutches,  form  a  pretty  enough  pic- 
ture to  smoke  a  cigarette  and  ponder  over  on  a  warm 
afternoon.  The  people  down  there  seem  playing  at 
life,  and  finding  the  game  pleasant  enough,  to  judge 
from  their  surroundings.  They  look  very  small  even 
when  viewed  with  the  aid  of  a  lens. 

Raising  your  eyes  suddenly  from  those  toy  houses, 
those  trim  and  tiny  lawns,  those  gardens  threaded  with 
the  scarlet  of  geraniums,  you  see  Sussex  in  one  great 
sweep  of  country,  just  as  by  the  river  you  saw  the  past 
in  the  monolithic  Roman  road.  Woods  upon  woods, 
domes  and  vales  of  foliage,  and,  to  the  south,  the  con- 
tinuation of  the  Downs  on  which  you  are  standing. 


152  GARRYOWEN 

Emmanuel  Ibbetson  had  built  the  bungalow  and 
stables  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  about  racing.  It 
was  certainly  an  ideal  spot  for  training.  Just  here  the 
Downs  are  level  as  heart  of  man  could  wish.  A  great 
sweep  of  turf,  a  tableland  where  nothing  moves  but  the 
grazing  sheep  and  the  shadow  of  the  bird  and  cloud, 
extends  from  the  stables  due  south,  ending  in  an  out- 
crop of  chalk  and  a  rise  leading  to  the  higher  Downs 
and  the  sea.  The  higher  Downs  shelter  it  in  winter 
from  the  wind. 

There  was  stabling  for  half  a  dozen  horses ;  every- 
thing about  the  place  was  of  the  best,  from  the  tiles  to 
the  roof,  from  the  patent  manger  to  the  patent  latch  of 
the  doors.  There  was  a  patent  arrangement  with  a 
prong  for  conducting  the  hay  from  the  loft  above  to 
the  manger  below.  This  nearly  stabbed  Garryowen  in 
his  suddenly  upflung  nose,  and  Moriarty,  who  had  a 
contempt  for  everything  patent,  including  medicine, 
broke  it — but  this  in  parenthesis. 

The  bungalow,  where  the  human  beings  were  stabled, 
was  a  much  less  elaborate  affair  in  its  way.  Built  for 
a  bachelor  and  his  friends,  it  just  held  the  Frenches, 
leaving  a  spare  room  over  for  Mr.  Dashwood. 

This  is  a  vague  sketch  of  the  buildings  and  prem- 
ises called  The  Martens — Heaven  knows  why — and  sit- 
uated like  a  marten-box  on  the  eminence  above  Crows- 
nest,  that  highly  respectable  residential  neighbourhood 
where  residents  knew  nothing  yet  of  the  fact  that  the 
place  had  been  let — or,  rather,  borrowed — and  nothing 
yet  of  the  nature  of  the  borrower. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"My  dear,"  wrote  Miss  Grimshaw  in  another  letter 
to  that  lady  friend,  "  here  we  are  at  last.  We  arrived 
the  day  before  yesterday  evening,  horses  and  all,  in- 
cluding the  servants.  I  once  heard  an  old  lady  in  the 
States  giving  good  advice  to  a  young  woman  just  mar- 
ried. One  sentence  clung  to  me,  and  will,  I  think,  by 
its  truth,  cling  to  me  for  ever.  '  Never  move  serv- 
ants.' 

"  We  took  with  us  from  Ireland  Mrs.  Driscoll,  the 
cook,  and  Norah,  the  parlour-maid,  besides  the  men- 
servants.  I  am  not  referring  to  the  men  when  I  repeat 
that  axiom,  '  Never  move  servants,'  but  to  the  women- 
folk. 

"We  had  not  started  from  Holyhead  when  Mrs. 
Driscoll  broke  down.  She  weighs  fourteen  stone,  and 
does  everything  in  a  large  way.  She  broke  down  from 
homesickness.  She  had  travelled  well  up  to  that.  The 
crossing  had  been  smooth,  and  she  had  not  made  a 
single  complaint,  fighting  bravely,  I  suppose,  all  the 
time,  against  the  growing  nostalgia.  Then  on  the  plat- 
form at  Holyhead,  before  the  waiting  Irish  mail,  it  all 
came  out  at  once.  It  sounds  absurd,  but  really  the 
thing  was  tragic.  Real  grief  is  always  tragic,  even  the 
grief  of  a  child  over  a  broken  toy,  and  this  was  real 
grief,  and  it  taught  me  more  in  five  minutes  about  Ire- 
land and  why  the  Irish  in  America  hate  England  than 

153 


154i  GARRYOWEN 

I  learned  from  all  my  months  spent  in  the  country  it- 
self. 

"  It  did  not  seem  grief  for  a  lost  country  so  much  as 
for  a  lost  father  or  mother,  and,  mind  you,  she  was 
with  people  she  knew,  and  she  was  only  being  '  expa- 
triated '  for  a  few  months.  What  must  they  have  suf- 
fered in  the  old  days,  those  people  driven  from  their 
homes  and  holdings  to  a  country  three  thousand  miles 
away,  never  to  come  back  ?  " 

Miss  Grimshaw,  in  her  letter,  continued: 

"Mr.  French  got  Mrs.  Driscoll  brandy  from  the 
refreshment-room,  and  we  took  her  in  the  first-class 
carriage  with  us,  but  all  her  cry  was  to  go  back,  and 
what  lent  a  grim  humour  to  the  situation  was  the  fact 
that  none  of  us  can  go  back  to  Ireland  from  this  ex- 
pedition into  England  till  a  certain  something  has 
been  accomplished. 

"  There  seems  something  mysterious  and  sinister  in 
that  statement,  but  there  is  really  nothing  sinister  in 
the  situation.  Only  a  horse.  However,  to  return  to 
the  servants.  Mrs.  D.  has  recovered  somewhat,  but 
Norah,  the  parlour-maid,  has  now  broken  down.  She 
is  a  pretty  girl  with  black  hair,  grey  eyes,  and  beau- 
tiful teeth,  and  she  is  sitting  at  the  moment  in  the 
kitchen,  with  her  apron  over  her  head,  *  eating  her 
heart  out,'  to  use  Mrs.  Driscoll's  expression.  The 
curious  thing  is  that  both  these  women  have  no  rela- 
tions of  any  account  to  tie  them  to  Ireland.  It's  just 
Ireland  itself  they  want — and  it  seems  to  me  they 
won't  be  happy  till  they  get  it. 

"  The  woman  from  Crowsnest,  whom  Mr.  Dashwood 


GARRYOWEN  155 

got  to  tidy  the  place  up  and  light  the  fires  and  have 
supper  for  us  the  evening  we  came,  has  left.  She  did 
not  get  on  with  the  others ;  and  now  this  place  is  all 
Irish  with  the  exception  of  me — a  bit  of  the  west  coast 
planted  above  a  most  staid  and  respectable  English 
village.  I  wonder  what  the  result  will  be  as  far  as 
intercommunication  goes? 

"  No  one  has  called  yet ;  but,  of  course,  it  is  too 
soon.  But  I  hope  they  will  stay  away.  I  have  several 
reasons. — Yours  ever,  VIOLET." 

Miss  Grimshaw  had  several  very  good  reasons  to 
make  her  desire  seclusion  for  herself  and  the  family 
which  she  had  taken  under  her  wing.  I  say  "  taken 
under  her  wing  "  advisedly,  for  since  the  day  of  her 
arrival  at  Drumgool  she  had  been  steadily  extending 
the  protection  of  her  practical  nature  and  common 
sense  to  her  proteges. 

In  a  hundred  ways  too  small  for  mention  in  a  ro- 
mance of  this  description  she  had  interfered  in  domes- 
tic matters.  Mrs.  Driscoll,  for  instance,  no  longer 
boiled  clothes  in  the  soup  kettle,  prodding  them  at  in- 
tervals with  the  pastry  roller,  and  Norah  no  longer 
swept  the  carpets  under  the  sofas,  lit  the  fires  with 
letters  left  on  the  mantel-piece,  or  emptied  pails  out 
of  the  windows;  and  these  sanitary  reforms  had  been 
compassed  with  no  loss  of  goodwill  on  the  part  of  the 
reformed  towards  the  reformer. 

She  had  emancipated  Effie  from  her  bondage  to  an 
imaginary  disease,  and  she  had  pointed  out  to  French 
the  way  he  should  go,  and  the  methods  he  should  use 


156  GARRYOWEN 

in  carrying  out  his  assault  on  what,  to  a  lower  order 
of  mind  than  Miss  Grimshaw's,  would  have  seemed  the 
impossible. 

Common  sense  of  the  highest  order  sometimes  allies 
itself  to  what  common  sense  of  a  lower  order  would 
deem  lunacy.  When  this  alliance  takes  place,  some- 
times great  and  world-shaking  events  occur. 

French  had  conceived  the  splendid  idea  of  winning 
a  great  English  race  with  an  unknown  horse  in  the 
face  of  debts,  enemies  and  training  disabilities.  Miss 
Grimshaw  had,  with  misgivings  enough,  brought  him 
the  aid  of  her  practical  nature.  The  first  move  in  the 
game  had  been  made;  the  knight's  gambit  had  been 
played;  Garryowen  had  been  hopped  over  three 
squares  and  landed  in  Sussex ;  nothing  threatened  him 
for  the  moment,  and  Miss  Grimshaw's  mind,  turned 
from  the  big  pieces,  was  now  occupied  with  pawns. 

Norah  was  a  pawn.  She  had  a  grand-aunt  living 
in  Cloyne,  and  should  she  forsake  The  Martens  and 
return,  driven  by  home-sickness,  to  the  roof  of  her 
grand-aunt,  the  game  might  very  easily  be  lost.  Mr. 
Giveen,  who  had  inklings  of  French's  debt,  would  dis- 
cover, by  hook  or  by  crook,  the  Sussex  address,  and 
when  Lewis'  man  arrived  to  find  Drumgool  empty, 
the  information  he  would  receive  from  Giveen 
would  be  fatal  as  a  loaded  gun  in  the  hands  of  an 
unerring  marksman.  Mrs.  Driscoll  was  another  pawn 
in  a  dangerous  position;  but  the  small  pieces  most 
engaging  the  attention  of  our  chess-player  at  the 
moment  were  literally  small  pieces — half-crowns  and 
shillings. 


GARRYOWEN  157 

She  had  carefully  worked  out  the  money  problem 
with  Mr.  French,  and,  allowing  for  everything,  and 
fifty  pounds  over,  to  take  them  back  to  Ireland,  in 
case  of  disaster,  there  was  barely  three  pounds  a  week 
left  to  bring  them  up  to  the  second  week  of  April. 

"  Oh,  bother  the  money !  "  French  would  say.  "  It's 
not  the  money  I'm  thinking  of." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  what  I'm  thinking  of.  We  must  be 
economical.  We  should  have  travelled  here  third-class, 
not  first.  You  sent  that  order  to  Mr.  Dashwood's  wine 
merchant  for  all  that  champagne  and  stuff." 

"  I  did,  I  know,  but  that  won't  have  to  be  paid  for 
a  year." 

"  Well,  it  will  have  to  be  paid  some  time.  However,  I 
don't  mind  that  so  much.  What  is  frightening  me  is 
the  small  amount  of  actual  money  in  hand.  We  have 
four  months  before  us,  and  only  a  little  over  sixty 
pounds  for  that  four  months.  Now,  I  want  to  propose 
something." 

"Yes?" 

"  It's  this.  Why  not  give  me  that  sixty  pounds  to 
keep  and  pay  the  expenses  out  of?  If  you  keep  it,  it 
will  be  gone  in  a  month." 

Mr.  French  scratched  his  head.     Then  he  laughed. 

"Faith,  perhaps  you're  right,"  said  he. 

"  I  know  I  am  right.  It  is  only  by  saving  and  scrap- 
ing that  we  will  tide  over  these  four  months.  Now  you 
have  that  money  in  the  bank.  We  calculated  that  it 
will  just  cover  your  racing  expenses;  the  money  you 
will  require  for  bringing  the  horse  to  Colonel  What's- 
his-name's  stable  at  Epsom  before  the  race,  the  money 


158  GARRYOWEN 

you  will  require  for  backing  the  horse — in  fact,  for 
the  whole  business — leaving  fifty  pounds  over  in  case 
of  disaster." 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  lock  your  cheque-book  up  in 
a  drawer  and  give  me  the  key,  and  promise  not  to  touch 
that  money  on  any  account." 

"I  won't  touch  it,"  said  French,  with  the  air  of  a 
schoolboy  making  a  resolution  about  apples. 

"  I  know  that's  what  you  say  and  feel  now ;  but 
there  are  temptations,  and  it  is  vital  that  you  should 
be  out  of  the  way  of  temptation.  You  remember  Ja- 
son, and  how  he  stopped  his  ears  with  wax  not  to  hear 
the  songs  of  the  sirens  ?  " 

"  Faith,"  said  French  in  a  tender  tone,  "  if  the 
sirens'  voices  were  as  sweet  as " 

He  checked  himself. 

"That  may  be,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw  hurriedly, 
"  but,  sweet  or  not  sweet,  there  are  always  voices  call- 
ing for  money;  even  coming  through  London  a  five- 
pound  note  went  on  nothing.  So  you  must,  please,  put 
that  cheque-book  in  a  drawer  and  lock  it,  and  give  me 
the  key.  Will  you  do  this  ?" 

"I  will,  I  will.  The  thing's  all  right,  but  if  you 
want  it  done,  I'll  do  it." 

"  Well,  let's  do  it  now,  then." 

"  I  will  in  a  minute,  when  I've  seen  Moriarty " 

"  No ;  now.  There's  nothing  like  doing  things  at 
the  moment." 

"  Well,  all  right,"  said  French.    "  Let's  do  it  now." 

He  produced   his   cheque-book  from  his   desk,    and 


GARRYOWEN  159 

Miss  Grimshaw  locked  it  up  in  the  drawer  of  an 
escritoire. 

"  And  now,"  said  she,  "  how  about  that  sixty 
pounds  ?  " 

The  badgered  one  produced  a  pocket-book  and  took 
three  twenty-pound  notes  from  it. 

"  That  leaves  me  only  three  pounds  ten,"  said  he, 
taking  the  coins  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  exhibit- 
ing them  as  he  handed  over  the  notes. 

Miss  Grimshaw  cast  a  hungry  eye  on  the  gold. 

"  When  that's  gone,"  said  she,  "  I  will  have  to  al- 
low you  pocket  money  out  of  my  household  expenses. 
We  are  in  exactly  the  position  of  shipwrecked  people 
on  a  raft,  with  only  a  certain  amount  of  food  and 
water,  and  when  people  are  in  that  condition  the  first 
thing  they  have  to  do  is  to  put  themselves  on  a  strict 
allowance.  I  want  you,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  to 
feel  that  you  are  on  a  raft — and  it  might  be  much 
worse.  You  have  a  house  for  which  we  have  to  pay  no 
rent.  You  have  wine  and  all  that  which  need  not  be 
paid  for  yet.  How  about  cigars  and  tobacco?  " 

"Oh,  there's  lots  of  smokes,"  said  French  rather 
drearily.  "  And  Bewlays  know  me,  and  I  can  get  any- 
thing I  want  on  credit — only  I'm  thinking " 

"Yes?" 

"  There  may  be  other  expenses.  In  a  place  like  this 
people  are  sure  to  call,  and  how  about  if  they  want  to 
play  bridge,  or " 

"Don't  let's  think  of  it,"  said  the  girl.  "Bother! 
Why  couldn't  it  have  been  summer?  " 

"  They  play  bridge  in  summer  as  well  as  winter." 


160  GARRYOWEN 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  they  do.  But  the  fools  spend  their 
energy  on  tennis  as  well,  and  that  makes  the  disease 
less  acute.  Well,  if  you  have  to  play  bridge,  I'll  try 
to  find  the  money  for  it  somehow,  even  if  I  have  to 
keep  the  household  on  oatmeal.  What  other  expenses 
are  likely  to  turn  up  ?  " 

"  There's  sure  to  be  subscriptions  and  things.  And, 
see  here.  If  we're  invited  out,  we'll  have  to  return  any 
hospitality  we  receive." 

Visions  of  Mrs.  Driscoll's  fantastic  cookery,  crossed 
by  visions  of  big  bills  from  Benoist,  rose  before  Miss 
Grimshaw's  mind,  but  she  was  not  a  person  to  be  easily 
cast  down. 

"  If  they  do,  we'll  manage  somehow.  We  have  wine, 
and  that's  the  biggest  item.  Besides  " — a  brilliant  in- 
spiration seized  her — "  I'm  only  the  governess.  People 
won't  call  on  me.  You  are  really  in  the  position  of  a 
bachelor,  so  you'll  only  have  to  invite  men." 

Mr.  French  looked  troubled  for  a  moment,  then  he 
said,  "  I  was  going  to  have  told  you  something." 

He  stopped  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Well?" 

"Dashwood " 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  he  said — in  fact,  he  said  that  these  old  Eng- 
lish folk  round  here  are  such  a  lot  of  stuck-up  old 
fools  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you'd  have  a  bad  time 
here  as  a  governess.  So  he  said  that  he  said  to  a  man 
that  lives  here  I  was  bringing  my  niece  with  me.  D'you 
see?" 


GARRYOWEN  161 

Miss  Grimshaw  laughed.  She  knew  at  once  what 
French  meant.  Over  in  clean  Ireland  no  one  thought 
anything  of  a  pretty  young  governess  living  in  the 
house  of  a  widower  and  looking  after  his  daughter; 
but  here  it  was  different.  The  morals  of  the  rabbit- 
hutch,  which  are  the  morals  of  English  society,  had  to 
be  conformed  to.  She  had  never  thought  of  the  mat- 
ter before,  and  lo  and  behold!  Bobby  Dashwood  had 
thought  of  the  matter  for  her. 

"  But  I'm  not  your  niece,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  No,"  said  French,  "  but,  sure,  you  might  be.  And 
how  are  they  to  know?  Lot  of  old  fools,  they  think 
the  position  of  a  governess  beneath  them — not  that 
you  are  a  governess.  Sure,"  finished  he,  apologetic 
and  laughing,  "  we're  all  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  the 
easiest  way  out  is  to  cut  the  knot  and  claim  kinship. 
I  don't  know  but  one  of  the  Frenches  mayn't  have 
married  some  of  your  people  in  the  past." 

"  That  would  scarcely  make  me  your  niece.  Any- 
how, I  don't  care,  only  the  servants : 

"  Faith,  and  it's  little  the  servants  will  say.  They're 
dead-set  against  the  English  folk,  and  won't  have  a 
word  with  them.  Only  this  morning  I  heard  Mrs. 
Driscoll  with  a  chap  that  had  come  round  selling  vege- 
tables. *  Away  with  you,'  says  she,  '  or  I'll  set  the 
dog  on  you,  coming  round  to  my  back  door  with  your 
turnips  and  your  rubbish!'  The  sight  of  an  English 
face  sets  her  off  going  like  an  alarm  clock.  But  little 
I  care  about  that,  so  long  as  she  doesn't  go  off  her- 
self." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  go  now  and  see  what  Effie's  doing 


162  GARRYOWEN 

and  how  the  servants  are  getting  on.     Mr.  Dashwood 
is  coming  down  for  the  week-end,  is  he  not?" 
"  Yes ;  he'll  be  down  on  Friday." 
"  The  great  comfort  about  him,"  said  she,  "  is  that 
he  takes  us  just  as  we  are,  and  there's  no  trouble  or 
expense  with  him." 

She  left  the  room.  It  was  the  second  morning  of 
their  stay  at  The  Martens,  and  before  going  to  look 
after  Effie  and  the  servants  she  passed  out  on  the 
verandah  and  stood  there  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
winter  landscape  and  then  down  at  the  houses  of  the 
Crowsnesters. 

She  felt  dimly  antagonistic  to  the  people  who  lived 
in  those  comfortable-looking,  red-tiled  houses  set  about 
with  gardens.  She  fancied  women  sitting  by  those 
fires  whose  smoke  curled  up  in  thin  wreaths  through 
the  winter  air,  women  who  would  cast  their  noses  up 
at  the  idea  of  a  governess,  and  their  heads  and  eyes 
after  their  noses  at  the  idea  of  a  supposititious  "  niece." 
She  imagined  gentlemen  addicted  to  bridge  who  would 
drain,  perhaps,  her  narrow  resources. 

One  thing  pleased  her.  The  neighbourhood  looked 
prosperous,  and  the  charitable  appeals,  she  thought, 
could  not  be  very  exacting.  On  this  she  reckoned 
without  the  knowledge  that  a  large  amount  of  Eng- 
lish charity  begins  and  ends  abroad. 

Then  she  turned,  and,  still  delaying  before  going  to 
see  after  the  servants  and  Effie,  she  passed  round  to 
the  stableyard. 

Andy,  who  was  passing  across  the  yard  with  a 
bucket  in  his  hand,  touched  his  cap,  put  down  the 


GARRYOWEN  163 

bucket,  and  with  a  grin  on  his  face,  but  without  a  word, 
opened  the  upper  door  of  the  loose-box  that  held  the 
treasure  and  pride  of  the  Frenches. 

Scarcely  had  he  done  so  than  the  sharp  sound  of 
horse-hoofs  on  flags  was  heard,  and  a  lovely  picture 
framed  itself  in  the  doorway — the  head  of  Garry- 
owen. 

Leaving  aside  the  beauty  of  women,  surely  above  all 
things  beautiful  and  sentient  the  head  of  a  beautiful 
horse  is  supreme.  Where  else  in  the  animal  kingdom 
will  you  find  such  grace,  such  sensitiveness,  such  deli- 
cacy, combined  with  strength?  Where  else,  even  in 
the  faces  of  men,  such  soul? 

Even  in  the  faces  of  men !  The  girl  thought  of  the 
faces  of  the  men  she  had  come  across  in  life,  and  she 
contrasted  those  heads,  stamped  with  dulness,  with 
greed,  with  business,  or  with  pleasure — she  contrasted 
these  images  of  God  with  the  finely  chiselled,  benign, 
and  beautiful  head  of  Garryowen. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  Mr.  Giveen  would  have  the 
impudence  to  call  Garryowen  a  lower  animal? 

Even  Andy's  "  mug "  looked  like  the  mask  of  a 
gargoyle  by  contrast,  as  she  turned  from  the  loose- 
box  and  made  her  way  back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

"WHAT'S  the  matter?"  asked  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  Botherations !  "  replied  Miss  Grimshaw.  "  Look 
at  this." 

She  handed  him  a  neatly-printed  card,  folded  in  the 
middle.  It  looked  like  a  ball  programme.  Nearly  four 
months  had  passed.  The  Frenches  had  settled  down 
at  The  Martens.  The  whole  neighbourhood  had  called ; 
there  had  been  several  small  dinner  parties  at  the  bun- 
galow, and  Garry owen  was  turning  out  a  dream. 
Training  a  horse  is  just  like 'painting  a  picture;  the 
thing  grows  in  spirit  and  in  form ;  it  has  some  of  you 
in  it ;  the  pride  of  the  artist  is  not  unallied  to  the  pride 
of  the  trainer.  When  you  see  swiftness  coming  out, 
and  strength,  endurance,  and  pluck,  you  feel  just  as 
the  artist  feels  when,  of  a  morning,  he  uncovers  his 
canvas  and  says  to  himself:  "Ah!  yes,  I  put  some 
good  stuff  into  that  yesterday." 

On  the  dull,  clear  winter  mornings,  in  the  bracing 
air  of  the  Downs,  French  knew  something  of  the  joy 
of  life  as  he  watched  Garryowen  and  The  Cat  taking 
exercise.  Sometimes  young  ladies  from  Crowsnest 
would  appear  on  the  edge  of  the  Downs  to  watch  Mr. 
French's  "dear  horses."  They  little  knew  how  apt 
that  expression  was. 

Mr.  Dashwood  examined  the  card. 

164 


GARRYOWEN  165 

It  contained  the  programme  and  the  rules  of  a  small 
poetical  club  presided  over  by  a  Miss  Slimon.  Each 
member  was  supposed  to  invent  or  create  a  poem  on  a 
given  subject  each  month  and  to  send  the  result  to 
Miss  Slimon,  who  would  read  it.  But  the  matter  did 
not  end  there.  Miss  Slimon,  by  virtue  of  her  self- 
constituted  office,  would  send  in  due  course  each  mem- 
ber's poem  to  each  of  the  other  members  for  criticism, 
and  the  results  would  be  made  known  and  published  in 
a  small  pamphlet  at  the  end  of  the  year.  The  sub- 
scription was  a  guinea,  and  to  this  society  for  the 
circulation  of  rubbish  Miss  Grimshaw  had  been  in- 
vited to  subscribe.  Hence  the  trouble. 

"  She  asked  me  if  I  liked  poetry,  and  I  said  I  did, 
like  a  fool,  and  then  she  asked  me  to  join,  and  I  agreed. 
I  can't  back  out  now.  She  never  told  me  the  subscrip- 
tion was  a  guinea." 

"  It's  beastly  bad  luck,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  who 
by  this  time  knew  the  financial  affairs  of  the  Frenches 
thoroughly  to  their  innermost  convolutions,  and  who 
was  at  the  moment  himself  in  the  most  horrible  con- 
dition of  penury,  a  condition  that  made  the  purchase 
of  his  week-end  ticket  to  Crowsnest  (he  came  down 
every  week-end)  a  matter  of  consequence. 

"  And  that's  not  all,"  went  on  the  girl.  "  Here's  a 
bazaar  coming  on,  and,  of  course,  we'll  have  to  sub- 
scribe to  that  in  some  way.  They  want  me  to  take  a 
stall.  You  haven't  any  aunts  or  anyone  who  would 
do  embroidery  for  it,  have  you?  It's  to  be  on  April 
6." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  "I  don't  think  I  have 


166  GARRYOWEN 

any  female  relatives  any  good  in  the  fancy  needlework 
line.  I've  got  a  charitably-disposed  elderly  female 
cousin  I  might  land  for  a  subscription,  though." 

"  I  wouldn't  trust  myself  with  the  money.  No  mat- 
ter. I  daresay  we  will  manage  somehow.  I  want  to 
go  down  to  Crowsnest  and  post  these  letters.  Will  you 
walk  with  me?  " 

"  Rather,"  replied  Mr.  Dashwood,  and,  taking  his 
hat,  he  followed  her  out  on  the  verandah. 

It  was  a  clear  March  morning,  without  a  trace  of 
cloud  in  the  sky,  and  with  just  a  trace  of  frost  in  the 
air.  The  country,  still  half  wrapped  in  the  sleep  of 
winter,  had  that  charm  which  a  perfect  English  early 
spring  day  can  alone  disclose,  and  there  was  something 
— something  in  the  air,  something  in  the  sky,  some  inde- 
finable thrill  at  the  heart  of  things  that  said,  spirit 
fashion,  to  whoever  could  hear,  "  All  this  is  drawing 
to  a  close.  Even  now,  in  the  woods,  here  and  there, 
you  will  find  primroses.  In  a  week  or  two  you  will  find 
a  million.  My  doors  are  just  about  to  open,  the  cuckoo 
is  just  preening  for  flight,  the  swallows  at  Luxor  and 
Carnac  are  dreaming  of  the  pine  trees  and  the  north. 
I  am  Spring." 

Mr.  Dashwood  was  not  given  to  poetical  interpre- 
tations of  Nature's  moods,  but  there  was  that  in  the 
air  to-day  which  raised  to  an  acute  stage  the  chronic 
disease  he  had  been  suffering  from  for  months.  He 
had  seen  a  lot  of  his  companion  during  the  last  ten 
weeks  or  so,  but  he  had  played  the  game  like  a  man. 
Not  a  word  had  he  said  of  his  mortal  malady  to  the 
author  of  it. 


GARRYOWEN  167 

But  there  are  limits  to  endurance.  This  could  not 
go  on  any  longer;  yet  how  was  he  to  end  it?  French 
had  said  nothing  since  that  interview  in  the  Shelbourne 
Hotel,  and  a  subject  like  that,  once  dropped  between 
two  men,  is  horribly  difficult  to  take  up  again. 

What  did  French  propose  to  do?  Was  he  waiting 
till  Garryowen  won  or  lost  the  City  and  Suburban  be- 
fore he  "  asked  "  Miss  Grimshaw.  No  time  limit  had 
been  imposed.  "  I'm  giving  you  a  fair  field  and  no 
favour,"  Mr.  French  had  said.  "If  she  likes  you  bet- 
ter than  me,  well  and  good.  If  she  likes  me  better 
than  you,  all  the  better  for  me." 

That  was  all  very  well,  but  which  did  she  like  best? 
This  question  was  now  calling  imperatively  for  an  an- 
swer. Miss  Grimshaw  alone  could  answer  it;  but  who 
was  to  ask  her?  No  third  person  could  put  the  propo- 
sition before  her.  Only  one  of  the  two  rivals  could  do 
so,  and  to  do  so  would  be  to  propose,  and  to  propose 
would  be  dishonest. 

Of  course,  a  seemingly  easy  solution  of  the  difficulty 
would  be  to  go  to  French  and  say :  "  See  here.  I  can't 
stand  this  any  longer.  I'm  so  much  in  love  with  this 
girl  I  must  speak.  What  do  you  propose  to  do?  " 

Seemingly  easy,  yet  most  immensely  difficult.  In 
the  Shelbourne,  when  the  young  man  had  spoken,  he 
had  spoken  in  one  of  those  outbursts  of  confidence  which 
men  rarely  give  way  to.  To  reopen  the  question  in 
cold  blood  was  appallingly  hard.  Not  only  had  he 
got  to  know  the  girl  better  in  the  last  few  months,  but 
he  had  also  got  an  entirely  different  view  of  French. 
The  good,  easy-going  French  had  turned  for  Mr. 


168  GARRYOWEN 

Dashwood  from  another  man  who  was  a  friend  into  a 
friend  who  was  a  sort  of  fatherly  relation.  The  differ- 
ence in  years  between  them  showed  up  stronger  and 
stronger  as  acquaintanceship  strengthened,  and  French 
had  taken  on  an  avuncular  manner. 

The  benevolent  and  paternal  in  his  nature  had  un- 
consciously developed ;  he  was  constantly  giving  Bobby 
good  advice,  warning  him  of  the  evils  of  getting  into 
debt,  holding  himself  up  as  an  awful  example,  etc. 
French,  in  the  last  ten  weeks,  had  shown  no  symptoms 
of  special  feeling  with  regard  to  the  lady.  Was  he, 
too,  playing  the  game,  or  had  he  forgotten  all  about 
his  intentions  towards  her?  Or  was  his  mind  taken 
up  so  completely  with  the  horse  and  his  money  troubles 
that  he  had  no  time  at  the  moment  to  think  of  any- 
thing else? 

"  Isn't  it  delightful?  "  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Which  ? "  asked  Bobby,  coming  back  from  per- 
plexed meditations  to  reality. 

"This!  The  air!  The  country!  Look!  there's  a 
primrose." 

They  were  taking  the  downhill  path  from  The  Mar- 
tens. A  pale  yellow  primrose  growing  in  a  coign  of 
the  Down  side  had  attracted  her  attention,  and  she 
stooped  to  pick  it. 

"  Now,  I  wish  I  hadn't.  What  beasts  we  are !  We 
never  see  a  flower  but  we  must  pick  it,  or  a  bird  but 
we  want  to  shoot  it.  This  might  have  lived  days  if  I 
had  left  it  alone,  and  now  it  will  wither  in  a  few  hours. 
Here." 

She  stopped  and  fixed  the  primrose  in  Mr.  Dash- 


GARRYOWEN  169 

wood's  buttonhole.  She  was  so  close,  touching  him, 
and  her  felt  hat  almost  brushed  his  face.  There  was 
no  one  on  the  path.  It  was  the  psychological  moment, 
yet  he  had  to  let  it  go. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said. 

Miss  Grimshaw  looked  at  the  flower  critically  for  a 
second,  with  her  pretty  head  slightly  on  one  side. 

"  It  will  stick  in  without  a  pin,"  she  said.  "  Come 
on,  or  I'll  miss  the  post.  No,  thanks,  I  can  carry  the 
letters  all  right.  I  like  to  have  something  in  my  hand. 
Why  is  it  that  persons  always  feel  lost  without  some- 
thing in  their  hands?  Look,  that's  Miss  Slimon's 
house,  The  Ranch.  She's  immensely  rich  and  awfully 
mean,  and  lives  there  alone  with  three  servants.  She's 
always  dismissing  them.  I  don't  know  why  unless  they 
steal  the  poetry.  There's  nothing  else  much  to  steal, 
for  she's  a  vegetarian  and  lives  on  a  shilling  a  day, 
and  keeps  the  servants  on  board  wages.  And  I  have 
to  give  her  a  guinea  out  of  my  hard-earned  savings 
for  that  poetical  club.  I'm  going  to  make  Effie  write 
the  poetry.  It  will  give  the  child  something  to  do. 
That's  Colonel  Creep's  house,  The  Roost.  They  were 
the  first  people  to  call  on  us.  Sort  of  spies  sent  out 
by  the  others  to  see  how  the  land  lay.  Do  you  know, 
I've  never  thanked  you  for  something?  " 

"No?     What's  that?" 

"  Do  you  remember  your  forethought  in  making  me 
a  niece  to  Mr.  French?  Well,  I  never  felt  the  benefit 
of  your  benevolent  intention  so  much  as  the  day  when 
the  Creeps  called  on  us,  and  when  they  crept  into  the 
drawing-room,  three  girls  like  white  snails,  followed 


170  GARRYOWEN 

by  an  old  gentleman  like  a  white  cockatoo.  It  was  so 
pleasant  to  think  they  thought  I  was  on  a  social  and 
mental  equality  with  them,  and  so  pleasant  to  think 
they  were  wrong !  " 

"  Wrong ! "  cried  Dashwood,  flying  out.  "  I  should 
think  they  were  wrong !  Not  fit  to  black  your  boots." 

"Perhaps  that's  what  I  meant,  from  my  point  of 
view,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw  modestly,  "  and  perhaps  it 
wasn't.  Anyhow,  the  situation  was  not  without  hu- 
mour. Our  relationship  with  the  Crowsnest  people  has 
been  a  long  comedy  of  a  sort.  You  know  all  our  af- 
fairs, but  you  don't  know  the  ins  and  outs,  and  how 
the  wild  Irish  on  the  hillside " 

"Yes?" 

Miss  Grimshaw  laughed.  "  Do  you  remember  that 
little  dinner  party  Mr.  French — my  uncle,  I  mean — 
gave  in  January  to  Colonel  Bingham  and  the  Smith- 
Jacksons?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  remember  how  Colonel  Bingham  praised  the 
pheasants?  Well,  they  were  his  own  pheasants." 

"  His  own  pheasants !  " 

"Moriarty  poached  them." 

Mr.  Dashwood  exploded. 

"  I  did  not  know  at  the  time,"  went  on  Miss  Grim- 
shaw virtuously.  "  I  entrusted  the  marketing  to  Mrs. 
Driscoll.  I  explained  to  her  privately  that  we  would 
have  to  be  very  economical.  She  quite  understood.  I 
will  say  for  the  Irish  that  they  are  quicker  in  the  up- 
take than  any  other  people  I  know.  She  said  she  could 
make  ends  meet  on  two  pounds  ten  a  week,  and  she 


GARRYOWEN  171 

has  done  so.  More,  she  has  made  them  lap  over.  I  am 
not  very  good  at  the  price  of  things.  Still,  pheasants 
at  a  shilling  each  seemed  to  me  very  cheap.  Of  course, 
I  thought  most  probably  she  was  dealing  with  some 
man  who  got  the  things  in  some  contraband  way,  and 
I  suppose  it  was  very  wicked  of  me,  but — the  pheas- 
ants were  very  nice.  Then  there  were  vegetables." 

"You  can't  poach  vegetables?" 

"  I  think  I  said  before,"  went  on  Miss  Grimshaw, 
"  that  the  Irish  were  quicker  than  any  other  people  I 
know  in  the  uptake,  and  I'm  very  much  afraid  that 
Moriarty  has  uptaken,  not  only  all  the  potatoes  that 
have  come  to  our  table  this  winter,  but  the  turnips  as 
well." 

Again  Mr.  Dashwood  exploded. 

"  Of  course  you  can't  poach  vegetables,"  she  went 
on,  "  but  you  can  poach  eggs,  and,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  believe  our  fried  eggs  are  poached  eggs.  Could 
such  a  statement  ever  occur  out  of  Ireland  and  carry 
sense  with  it?  It's  awful,  isn't  it?" 

"I  think  it's  a  jolly  lark,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 
"  Gloats !  To  think  of  old  Bingham  gobbling  his  own 
turkeys ! " 

"Pheasants,  you  mean.  Don't  talk  of  turkeys,  for 
we've  had  three  since  Christmas,  and  I  don't  know 
what's  been  going  on  in  the  kitchen  in  the  way  of 
food,  but  I  know  they  had  jugged  hare  for  supper  last 
night." 

"  When  did  you  find  out  about  it?  " 

'*  Yesterday  morning  I  began  to  guess.  You  see,  I 
had  been  wondering  for  a  long  time  how  Mrs.  Driscoll 


172  'GARRYOWEN 

had  been  managing  to  produce  such  good  food  for 
two  pounds  ten  a  week.  She  pays  for  the  groceries  and 
everything  out  of  it.  Well,  yesterday  morning  she 
brought  me  six  pounds  that  she  had  '  saved '  out  of  the 
housekeeping  money;  she  said  it  might  be  useful  to 
'  the  master.' 

"  I  must  say  it  was  a  perfect  godsend,  but  I  thought 
it  more  than  peculiar,  and  I  tried  to  cross-question  her. 
But  it  was  useless.  She  swore  she  had  been  saving  the 
money  for  months — before  we  left  Drumgool  even — 
so  I  could  say  no  more. 

"  However,  things  came  to  a  climax  last  night.  I 
was  lying  in  bed ;  it  was  long  after  eleven,  and  the  moon 
was  very  bright,  and  I  heard  a  noise  in  the  stable-yard. 
My  window  looks  on  to  the  stable-yard.  I  got  up  and 
peeped  through  the  blind,  and  I  saw  Moriarty  and 
Andy  with  a  sheep  between  them.  They  were  trying 
to  put  it  into  one  of  the  loose  boxes,  and  it  didn't  seem 
to  want  to  go.  Now,  when  you  are  trying  to  drive  a 
sheep  like  that  against  its  will,  it  bleats,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  I  should  think  so." 

"  Well ;  this  sheep  didn't  bleat— it  was  muzzled ! " 

They  had  reached  the  post-office  by  this,  and  Miss 
Grimshaw  stopped  to  put  in  her  letters;  then  she  re- 
membered that  she  required  stamps  and  a  packet  of 
hooks  and  eyes,  so  she  left  Mr.  Dashwood  to  his  medi- 
tations in  the  street  and  entered  the  little  shop. 

It  was  a  very  small  shop  that  competed  in  a  spirited 
way  with  the  Italian  warehouse.  It  sold  boots,  too — 
hobnailed  boots  hung  in  banks  from  the  ceiling — and 
a  small  but  sprightly  linen-drapery  business  went  on 


GARRYOWEN  173 

behind  a  counter  at  right  angles  to  the  counter  that 
sold  tinned  salmon  and  tea. 

Chopping,  who  owned  this  emporium,  was  a  pale- 
faced  man,  consumptive,  and  sycophantic,  with  a  hor- 
rible habit  of  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap 
when  any  of  the  carriage  people  of  Crowsnest  entered 
his  little  shop.  This  is  a  desperately  bad  sign  in  an 
Englishman;  as  a  symptom  of  mental  and  moral  de- 
pravity it  has  almost  died  out.  In  the  early  and  mid 
Victorian  age,  in  the  era  of  little  shops  and  small  ho- 
tels, it  was  marked ;  but  it  lingers  still  here  and  there 
in  England,  and  when  one  meets  with  it  it  makes  one 
almost  a  convert  to  Socialism. 

Mr.  Chopping  washed  his  hands  before  Miss  Grim- 
shaw,  for,  though  the  Frenches  were  not  carriage  peo- 
ple, they  owned  horses  and  were  part  of  the  social 
state  of  Crowsnest;  and  Miss  Grimshaw  wondered  if 
Mr.  Chopping  would  have  washed  his  hands  so  vigor- 
ously if  he  had  known  all. 

There  was  a  big  notice  of  the  forthcoming  bazaar 
hanging  behind  the  drapery  counter. 

This  bazaar  had  become  a  bugbear  to  the  girl. 
Amid  her  other  distractions  she  was  working  a  table- 
cover  for  it,  and  Effie,  who  was  clever  with  her  needle, 
was  embroidering  a  tea-cosy.  If  the  thing  were  a 
failure,  and  the  sum  necessary  for  reconstructing  the 
choir  stalls  in  the  church  were  not  forthcoming,  there 
was  sure  to  be  a  subscription,  and  money  was  horribly 
tight,  and  growing  tighter  every  day. 

Things  had  managed  themselves  marvellously  well 
up  to  this,  thanks  to  French's  luck.  The  unfortunate 


174s  GARRYOWEN 

gentleman,  whose  pocket-money  under  the  strict  hand 
of  Miss  Grimshaw  did  not  exceed  ten  shillings  a  week, 
had  managed  to  make  that  sum  do.  More  than  that, 
he  wore  the  cloak  of  his  poverty  in  such  a  way  that  it 
seemed  the  garment  of  affluence.  The  ready  laugh, 
the  bright  eye,  and  the  jovial  face  of  Mr.  French  made 
the  few  halfpence  he  jingled  in  his  pocket  sound  like 
sovereigns.  He  played  bridge  with  so  much  success 
that  he  just  managed  to  keep  things  even;  and  the 
rare  charm  of  his  genial  personality  made  him  a  gen- 
eral favourite. 

"  Shall  we  go  back,  or  go  for  a  little  walk  down  the 
road?  "  asked  Miss  Grimshaw,  as  she  left  the  post-of- 
fice and  rejoined  her  cavalier. 

"A  walk,  by  all  means,"  replied  Mr.  Dashwood. 
"Let's  go  this  way.  Well,  go  on,  and  tell  me  about 
the  sheep." 

"  Oh,  the  sheep !  Yes,  there  it  was,  struggling  in 
the  moonlight;  they  were  trying  to  get  it  into  the 
loose  box  next  the  one  The  Cat's  in;  and  they  did, 
Andy  jostling  it  behind  and  Moriarty  pulling  it  by 
the  head.  Then  they  shut  the  door." 

"Yes?" 

"  That's  all.  I  saw  the  light  of  a  lantern  gleaming 
through  the  cracks  of  the  door,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  accessory  before  the  fact — isn't  that  what  they 
call  it? — to  a  murder.  Of  course,  I  saw  Mrs.  Driscoll 
this  morning,  and  I  taxed  her  right  out,  and  she  swore 
she  knew  nothing  about  it.  At  all  events,  I  told 
her  it  mustn't  occur  again  and  I  think  I  frightened 
her." 


GARRYOWEN  175 

**  That  chap  Moriarty  must  be  an  expert  poacher," 
said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  Expert  is  no  name  for  it,  if  he's  done  all  I  suspect 
him  of  doing.  It's  a  most  strange  position,  for  I  be- 
lieve they  don't  see  any  harm  in  it.  You  see,  they  seem 
to  look  upon  the  people  about  here  as  enemies  and 
Sussex  as  an  enemy's  country,  and  really,  you  know, 
they  have  still  a  good  deal  of  the  original  savage  cling- 
ing to  them.  I  found  a  notched  stick  in  the  kitchen 
the  other  day,  and  I  found  it  belonged  to  Norah. 
Every  notch  on  it  stood  for  a  week  that  she  had  been 
here." 

"  They  used  to  do  that  at  cricket  matches  long  ago 
to  score  the  runs.  I've  seen  an  old  rustic  Johnny — 
they  said  he  was  104 — doing  it." 

"  Let's  stop  here  for  a  moment,"  said  the  girl. 

Miss  Grimshaw  and  Mr.  Dashwood  had  reached  the 
little  bridge  on  the  Roman  road  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  The  river,  wimpling  and  sparkling  in  the  sun- 
light, was  alive  as  in  summer,  but  all  else  was  dead — 
or  asleep.  Dead  leaves  had  blown  in  the  river  bed 
and  floated  on  the  water,  or  were  mossed  in  the 
crevices  of  the  stones  here  and  there.  They  found  a 
brown  carpet  amid  the  trees  of  the  wood.  You  could 
see  far  in  amid  the  trees,  whose  leafless  branches 
formed  a  brown  network  against  the  blue  winter  sky. 

From  amid  the  tree*,  from  here,  from  there,  came 
occasionally  tke  twitter  of  a  bird.  Not  a  breath  of 
wind  stirred  the  branches,  and  the  place  had  the  still- 
ness of  a  stereoscopic  picture.  This  spot,  so  haunted 
by  poetry  and  beauty  in  summer,  in  winter  was  not  en- 


176  GARRYOWEN 

tirely  deserted.  On  a  day  like  this  it  had  a  strange 
beauty  of  its  own. 

Temptation  comes  in  waves.  The  all  but  overmas- 
tering temptation  to  seize  the  girl  in  his  arms  and  kiss 
her,  which  had  assailed  Mr.  Dashwood  on  the  hillside, 
was  now  returning  gradually.  She  was  leaning  with 
her  elbows  on  the  balustrade  of  the  bridge;  her  clear- 
cut  profile,  delicately  outlined  against  the  winter  trees, 
held  him,  as  one  is  held  by  the  graceful  curves  of  a 
cameo. 

Down  here,  to-day,  everything  was  preternaturally 
still.  The  essential  and  age-old  silence  of  the  Roman 
road  seemed  to  have  flooded  over  the  country  as  a  river 
floods  over  its  banks ;  the  warbling  and  muttering  of 
the  water  running  beneath  the  bridge  served  only  to 
accentuate  this  silence  and  point  out  its  intensity. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of? "  said  Mr.  Dash- 
wood. 

The  girl  started  from  her  reverie,  and  glanced  side- 
ways at  her  companion,  one  of  those  swallow-swift 
glances  whose  very  momentariness  is  filled  with  mean- 
ing. Mr.  Dashwood  had  spoken.  In  those  five  words 
he  had  let  his  secret  escape.  In  the  words  themselves 
there  was  nothing,  but  in  the  tone  of  them  there  was 
much.  They  were  five  messengers,  each  bearing  a  mes- 
sage. Five  volumes  of  prose  could  not  have  told  her 
more.  I  doubt  if  they  could  have  told  her  as  much. 

She  glanced  away  again  at  the  river. 

"I  don't  know.  Nothing.  That's  the  charm  of 
this  place.  I  often  come  here  and  lean  on  the  bridge 
and  look  at  the  water.  It  seems  to  mesmerise  one  and 


GARRYOWEN  177 

take  away  the  necessity  for  thought.  Don't  you  feel 
that  when  you  look  at  it?  " 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "I  wish  to  goodness 
it  did." 

She  cast  another  swift  side  glance  at  him.  The 
alteration  in  his  tone  made  her  wonder.  His  voice 
had  become  hard  and  almost  irritable.  He  spoke  as 
a  man  speaks  who  is  vexed  by  some  petty  worry,  and 
the  words  themselves  were  not  over  complimentary. 

She  could  not  in  the  least  understand  what  was  the 
matter  with  him.  Ever  since  his  return  to  Drumgool, 
while  her  mind  had  been  engaged  in  the  intricate  prob- 
lem of  Mr.  French's  affairs,  her  subliminal  mind  had 
been  engaged  in  the  equally  intricate  problem  presented 
by  the  conduct  of  Mr.  French  and  Mr.  Dashwood. 
There  were  times  when,  alone  with  her  supposititious 
uncle,  the  original  man  in  him  seemed  just  about  to 
speak  the  old  language  of  original  man  to  original 
woman.  There  were  times  when,  alone  with  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  the  same  natural  phenomenon  seemed  about  to 
happen. 

Yet  something  always  intervened.  French  would 
seem  to  remember  something,  check  himself,  turn  the 
conversation,  and,  with  the  bad  grace  of  a  bad  actor 
playing  a  repugnant  part,  change  from  .varmth  to 
indifference.  Dashwood,  even  a  worse  actor  than 
French,  would,  as  in  the  present  instance,  suddenly, 
and  for  no  apparent  reason,  become  almost  rude. 

Not  in  the  least  understanding  the  position  of  the 
two  gentlemen  one  towards  the  other,  and  the  fact  that 
they  looked  upon  each  other  as  rivals  in  a  game  whose 


178  GARRYOWEN 

rules  of  honour  had  to  be  observed,  she  had  passed 
from  amusement  to  vague  amazement  when  these  sud- 
den changes  of  temperature  took  place,  and  from 
amazement  to  irritation. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "you  never  feel 
the  necessity." 

"For  what?" 

"  Want  of  thought." 

"  Being  a  person  who  never  thinks,  how  could  you?  " 
was  what  her  tone  implied. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  feel  it  as  much  as  other  people," 
he  said.  "  In  a  world  like  this,  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  happiest  people  are  the  people  who  don't  think." 

*'  How  happy  some  people  must  be ! "  murmured 
she,  gazing  at  the  rippling  water  and  speaking  as 
though  she  were  taking  it  into  cynical  confidence. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  I  only  said  «  Thanks.'  " 

"What  for?" 

"  Your  remark." 

"My  remark?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  on  earth  was  there  in  my  remark  to  thank 
me  for?  " 

"If  there's  one  thing  I  hate  more  than  another," 
burst  out  Mr.  Dashwood,  "  it's  sarcasm  misapplied." 

"  Why  do  you  misapply  it,  then  ?  " 

"  I  never  do.  I  never  use  it,  so  I  couldn't  misapply 
it.  It's  you." 

"What's  you?" 


GARRYOWEN  179 

"  You  who  are  sarcastic." 

"  I  sarcastic ! "  said  the  girl  with  the  air  of  a  sacris- 
tan accused  of  theft.  "  When  was  I  ever  sarcastic  ?  " 

The  linnets  in  the  trees  must  have  heard  the  raised 
voices ;  the  humans  were  quarrelling  in  good  earnest 
then ;  no  doubt,  seeing  the  young  man  seize  the  young 
woman,  then  flew  away  thinking  tragedy  had  arrived 
on  the  old  Roman  road  with  all  her  pomp  and  circum- 
stance. 

For  a  moment  the  astonished  girl  had  a  vision  of 
being  hauled  over  the  bridge  to  drown  in  the  six-inch 
river,  and  then  she  lost  consciousness  to  everything  but 
the  embrace  of  the  man  who  had  seized  her  in  his 
arms.  Lips,  eyes,  and  mouth  covered  with  burning 
kisses,  she  leaned  against  the  parapet,  gasping  for 
breath  and — alone. 

Mr.  Dashwood  had  gone;  vaulting  over  the  low 
fence  of  the  wood,  he  had  vanished  amid  the  trees.  No 
criminal  ever  escaped  quicker  after  the  commission  of 
his  crime. 

"  Mad !  Oh,  he's  mad !  "  she  gasped,  half  laughing, 
gasping,  and  not  far  from  tears.  It  was  not  the  out- 
burst of  fervent  passion  that  astonished  or  shocked 
her — it  was  the  running  away. 

The  deep  throb  of  a  motor-car  topping  the  hill 
brought  her  to  her  senses,  and  she  had  composed  her- 
self, and  was  leaning  on  the  parapet  again,  looking 
at  the  river,  as  it  whizzed  by. 

Then  she  took  her  way  back  to  The  Martens,  walk- 
ing slowly  and  thinking  the  situation  over  as  she 
walked. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

MR.  DASHWOOD  in  his  delirium  had  penetrated  deep 
into  the  wood  beyond  sight  of  road  or  house  before  he 
recovered  his  normal  senses. 

Then  that  unpleasant  candid  friend  who  lives  in  the 
brain  of  every  man  had  his  say. 

"  Oh,  what  a  fool  you  have  made  of  yourself !  Oh, 
what  a  fool  you  have  made  of  yourself !  "  said  the 
friend  who  only  speaks  after  an  error  has  been  com- 
mitted, and  then  in  a  gloating  voice. 

"What  will  she  think  of  you?"  went  on  the  tor- 
mentor. "  You  have  acted  like  a  hooligan.  But  that 
wouldn't  matter,  for  passionate  men  are  apt  to  be 
hooligans,  and  women  don't  mind  that — but  to  run 
away!  To  run  like  a  rabbit!  She  does  not  know 
about  your  absurd  compact  with  French.  She  only 
knows  that  you  have  behaved  like  a  hooligan  or  an 
Ass.  Yes,  my  friend,  an  Ass,  with  a  capital  '  A.' " 

There  were  nut  groves  here,  and  one  required  the 
instincts  of  a  bush  pig  to  make  one's  way  in  any  given 
direction.  Mr.  Dashwood,  moving  blindly  and  swiftly, 
spurred  on  by  a  mad  desire  to  get  back  to  The  Mar- 
tens, pack  his  bag,  escape  to  London,  and  explain 
everything  in  a  letter,  took,  by  chance,  the  right  road, 
and  struck  a  right  of  way  that  led  through  the  woods 
skirting  the  hill  of  Crowsnest  and  bringing  him  on  the 
road  to  the  Downs. 

180 


GARRYOWEN  181 

He  ascended  the  steep  path  leading  to  The  Martens 
at  full  speed,  and,  out  of  breath,  flushed,  and  perspir- 
ing, he  was  making  his  way  to  the  bungalow,  when  he 
met  French,  amiable-looking,  cool,  and  smoking  a 
cigar. 

"Hullo!"  said  French.     "What's  up?" 

"  Everything,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  Don't  keep 
me,  like  a  good  fellow.  I'm  off  to  London." 

"  Off  to  London !  Why,  I  thought  you  were  stay- 
ing till  Monday." 

"I'm  not." 

"Where's  Miss  Grimshaw?"  asked  French,  follow- 
ing the  other  to  the  house.  "  Did  you  leave  her  in  the 
village." 

"  No,  I  left  her  by  the  bridge — I  mean  on  the  bridge, 
down  by  the  river." 

French  followed  the  young  man  into  his  bedroom. 
Bobby  Dashwood,  who  semed  like  a  sleeper  half-awak- 
ened from  a  horrible  nightmare,  pulled  a  kit-bag  from 
the  corner  of  the  room  and  began  stuffing  it  with 
clothes. 

French  took  his  sea^  on  a  chair  and  puffed  his 
cigar. 

"  Botheration ! "  said  French,  who  saw  love's  de- 
spair in  the  erratic  movements  of  his  companion. 
"  Botheration !  See  here,  Dashwood." 

« Yes— oh,  what!" 

"  Don't  go  getting  in  a  flurry  over  nothing." 

"Nothing!"  said  Mr.  Dashwood  with  a  hollow 
laugh,  stuffing  socks  and  hairbrushes  into  the  yawning 
bag. 


182  GARRYOWEN 

"  When  you've  been  through  the  mill  as  often  as  I 
have,"  said  French,  "  you'll  know  what  I  mean.  There 
never  was  a  girl  made  but  there  wasn't  as  good  a  one 
made  to  match  her." 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  girls.  I'm  thinking  of  my- 
self. I've  made — I've  made  an  ass  of  myself." 

"  Faith,  you're  not  the  first  man  that's  done  that." 

"  Possibly." 

"  And  won't  be  the  last.  I've  done  it  so  often  my- 
self. Ass!  Faith,  it's  a  herd  of  asses  I've  made  of 
myself,  and  jackasses  at  that,  and  there  you  go  get- 
ting into  a  flurry  over  doing  what  every  man  does. 
Did  you  ask  her?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dashwood,  viciously,  clasping  the  bag, 
"  I  didn't." 

"  Then  how  on  earth  did  you  make  an  ass  of  your- 
self? "  asked  French,  without  in  the  least  meaning  to 
be  uncomplimentary. 

"How?"  cried  Dashwood,  infuriated.  "Why,  by 
trying  to  act  straight  over  this  business.  Now  I  must 
go.  I'll  write  from  town.  I'll  explain  everything  in 
a  letter.  Only,  promise  me  one  thing — don't  say  any- 
thing to — her.  Don't  ask  her  questions." 


CHAPTER    XIX 

BAG  in  hand,  Mr.  Dashwood  made  for  the  door.  To 
reach  the  station  by  road  would  mean  the  risk  of  meet- 
ing Miss  Grimshaw.  By  the  Downs  side,  skirting  the 
allotments  and  the  Episcopalian  chapel,  ran  a  path 
that  led  indirectly  to  the  station.  This  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  took  walking  hurriedly,  and  arriving  half  an  hour 
before  the  1.10  to  Victoria  was  due. 

Crowsnest  Station  was  not  a  happy  waiting-place. 
Few  railway  stations  really  are.  To  a  man  in  Mr. 
Dashwood's  state  of  mind,  however,  it  was  not  intoler- 
able. Rose  gardens,  blue  hills,  or  the  music  of  Chopin 
would  have  been  torture  to  him.  Pictures  illustrating 
the  beauty  of  Rickman's  boot  polish  and  the  virtues 
of  Monkey  Brand  soap  fitted  his  mood. 

He  arrived  at  Victoria  shortly  before  three,  and 
drove  to  his  rooms  at  the  Albany.  It  was  a  feature 
of  Mr.  Dashwood's  peculiar  position  that,  though  heir 
to  large  sums  of  money,  endowed  with  a  reasonable  in- 
come, and  with  plenty  of  credit  at  command,  he  was, 
at  times,  as  destitute  of  ready  cash  as  any  member  of 
the  unemployed.  Hatters,  hosiers,  tailors,  and  boot- 
makers were  all  at  his  command,  but  an  unlimited 
credit  for  hats  is  of  no  use  to  you  when  your  bank 
balance  is  overdrawn  and  boots  fail  to  fill  the  void 
created  by  absence  of  money. 

When  he  paid  his  cab  off  in  Piccadilly  he  had  only 
183 


184  GARRYOWEN 

a  few  shillings  left  in  his  pocket.  It  was  late  on  a 
Saturday  afternoon,  and  the  desolate  prospect  of  a 
penniless  Sunday  lay  before  him,  but  left  him  unmoved. 
There  is  one  good  point  about  all  big  troubles — they 
eat  up  little  ones. 


This  was  Mr.  Dashwood's  letter  to  Miss  Grimshaw, 
received  and  read  by  her  on  Monday  morning: 

"  You  must  have  thought  me  mad ;  but  when  you 
know  all  you  will  think  differently.  I  hope  to  explain 
things  when  the  business  about  the  horse  is  over.  Till 
then  I  will  not  see  you  or  Mr.  French.  I  cannot  write 
more  now,  for  my  hands  are  tied." 

Mr.  French  also  received  a  letter,  by  the  same  post, 
which  ran: 

"  My  dear  French :— When,  at  the  Shelbourne  Hotel 
in  Dublin,  I  agreed  to  come  down  to  Drumgool  House 
as  your  guest,  you  said  to  me  frankly  and  plainly  that, 
with  regard  to  a  certain  young  lady,  you  would  give 
me  *  a  fair  field  and  no  favour  ' ;  you  intimated  that  you 
yourself  had  ideas  in  that  quarter,  but  that  you  would 
do  nothing  and  say  nothing  till  the  lady  herself  had  a 
full  opportunity  for  deciding  in  her  own  mind — or  at 
least  for  seeing  more  of  us. 

"  I  undertook  not  to  rush  things,  and  to  do  nothing 
underhand.  Well,  I  have  carried  out  my  word.  I 
have  played  the  game.  By  no  word  or  sign  have  I 
tried  to  take  advantage  of  my  position  till  Saturday, 
when  my  feelings  overcame  me,  and  I  made  a  fool  of 
myself.  The  agony  of  the  thing  is  I  can't  explain  to 


GARRYOWEN  185 

her  my  position.  It's  very  hard,  when  a  man  has  tried 
to  act  fair  and  square,  to  be  landed  in  a  beastly  bog- 
hole  like  this. 

"  I  only  can  explain  when  I  ask  her  to  be  my  wife — 
which,  I  tell  you  frankly,  I  am  going  to  do,  but  not 
yet.  I  know  how  your  plans  and  affairs  are  in  a 
muddle  till  this  race  is  over,  and  I  propose  to  do  noth- 
ing till  then.  Then,  and  only  then,  I  will  write  to  her, 
and  I  will  tell  you  the  day  and  hour  I  post  the  letter. 
I  expect  you  to  do  to  me  as  I  have  done  to  you,  and 
not  take  advantage  of  your  position. 

"  I  will  not  see  you  till  the  event  comes  off,  when  I 
hope  to  see  you  at  Epsom,  and  not  only  see  you,  but 
your  colours  first  past  the  winning-post." 

'A  youthful  and  straightforward  letter,  and  sensible 
enough,  considering  the  extraordinary  circumstances 
of  the  case. 

French,  when  he  read  it,  scratched  his  head. 

When  he  had  made  the  compact  with  Bobby  Dash- 
wood  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Shelbourne  Hotel,  he 
had  done  so  half  in  joke,  half  in  earnest.  Violet  Grim- 
shaw  had  appealed  to  him  from  the  first  just  as  a 
pleasant  picture  or  a  pretty  song  appeals  to  a  man, 
but,  till  the  day  at  the  Shelbourne  Hotel,  he  had  no 
views  regarding  her.  She  was  in  his  house,  under  his 
protection.  He  looked  on  her  more  as  a  daughter 
than  a  stranger  brought  under  his  roof  by  chance,  and 
had  Bobby  Dashwood  not  intervened,  he  might  have 
continued  so  to  regard  her. 

But  the  instant  Mr.  Dashwood  spoke  Mr.  French 
became  aware  that  Miss  Grimshaw  had  become  a  neces- 


186  GARRYOWEN 

sity  to  him,  or,  rather,  a  necessary  luxury.  He  was 
not  in  love  with  her,  but  she  was  a  charming  person 
to  have  in  the  house.  She  carried  brightness  with  her. 
He  did  not  want  to  lose  her,  and  here  was  Dashwood 
proposing  to  carry  her  away. 

Recognising  that  Bobby  was  very  much  in  earnest, 
and  knowing  that,  when  he  had  passed  his  irresponsible 
stage,  he  would  make  an  excellent  suitor  for  any  girl, 
French,  large  hearted  and  generous,  was  not  the  man 
to  put  barriers  in  the  way  of  a  good  match  for  the 
homeless  orphan  from  the  States.  But  he  would  have 
no  engagement  on  a  half-formed  acquaintanceship. 
If,  when  they  had  got  to  know  each  other  well,  Violet 
preferred  Bobby  to  anyone  else,  well  and  good.  If  she 
preferred  him  (French),  well  and  better. 

But  since  that  compact  at  the  Shelbourne,  though 
French  had  been  so  occupied  by  the  horse  that  he  had 
scarcely  time  to  think  of  anything  else,  the  bonds  had 
been  strengthening  between  him  and  the  girl,  and  his 
kindly  feeling  for  Bobby  had  been  increasing. 

He  did  not  recognise  the  facts  fully  till  he  put 
down  Mr.  Dashwood's  letter  and  summed  up  the  situa- 
tion exactly  and  precisely  in  the  word  "  Botheration !  " 
Everything  had  been  going  so  well  up  to  this.  Garry- 
owen  was  in  the  pink  of  condition.  Though  the  debt 
to  Lewis  was  due,  Lewis  might  have  been  dead  for  all 
the  trouble  he  gave,  or  could  give,  unless  by  any  chance 
Dick  Giveen  found  out  the  Sussex  address,  which  was 
next  to  an  impossibility ;  and  now  this  bother  must  turn 
up,  driving  Dashwood  away  and  so  splitting  up  their 
pleasant  little  party.  Dashwood  was  an  invaluable 


GARRYOWEN  187 

aide-de-camp,  but  French  was  mourning  him  more  as 
a  lost  friend,  when,  breaking  in  upon  his  meditation, 
Effie  entered  the  room. 

Disaster,  when  she  appears  before  us,  often  comes 
at  first  in  a  pleasant  disguise,  and  Effie  looked 
pleasant  enough  this  morning,  for  she  never  looked 
pleasanter  than  when  full  of  mischief. 

"  Papa,"  said  Effie,  "  what's  to-day?  " 

"  Monday,"  said  Mr.  French. 

"  I  know  it's  Monday.  I  mean,  the  day  of  the 
month?" 

"  The  thirtieth  of  March." 

Effie  absorbed  this  information  in  silence  and  oc- 
cupied herself  making  cocked  hats  out  of  an  old  bill 
for  straw  that  was  lying  on  the  floor,  while  her  father 
occupied  himself  at  the  writing-table  with  some  ac- 
counts. Miss  Grimshaw,  the  good  genius  of  the 
family,  Fate  had  decoyed  out  on  the  Downs  to  watch 
Garryowen,  with  Andy  up,  taking  his  exercise. 

"  Papa,"  said  Effie,  after  a  while. 

"What?"  asked  Mr.  French  in  a  bothered  voice. 

"  How  long  does  it  take  for  a  letter  to  go  from  here 
home?" 

"  Two  days,  nearly,"  said  French.  "  Why  do  you 
want  to  know?  " 

"  I  was  only  thinking." 

"  Well,  think  to  yourself,"  replied  her  father.  "  I'm 
busy,  and  don't  want  to  be  interrupted." 

Effie  obeyed  these  instructions,  making  incredibly 
small  cocked  hats  out  of  the  bill-paper  and  pursing  up 
her  lips  during  the  process. 


188  GARRYOWEN 

At  last  French,  tearing  up  some  calculations  and 
throwing  the  pieces  in  the  wastepaper  basket,  rose  to 
his  feet,  lit  a  cigar,  and  strolled  out. 

"  Won't  you  come  out  on  the  Downs  ?  "  said  he  as 
he  left  the  room. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Effie;  "I'm  busy." 

She  waited  till  she  heard  his  footsteps  on  the  ve- 
randah ;  then  she  rose  from  her  cocked-hat  making,  and 
went  to  the  writing-table. 

She  got  on  the  chair  just  vacated  by  her  father, 
took  a  sheet  of  notepaper  and  an  envelope,  dipped  a 
pen  in  ink,  and  began  to  address  the  envelope  in  a 
sprawling  hand. 

"  Mr.  Giveen, 

"The  Bungalow, 
"  Drumboyne, 

"  Nr.  Cloyne,  Ireland," 
wrote  Effie. 

Then  she  dried  the  envelope,  and  hid  it  in  the  blot- 
ting-pad. 

She  took  the  sheet  of  paper,  dipped  the  pen  in  ink, 
and  wrote  on  the  paper  with  care  and  labour: 
"April  fool!" 

Then,  having  dried  these  words  of  wisdom,  she  placed 
the  sheet  of  notepaper  in  the  envelope  and  gummed  it. 
Then,  getting  down  from  the  chair,  she  ran  to  the 
window  to  see  that  nobody  was  coming,  and,  assured 
of  the  fact,  ran  to  the  writing-table  and  stole  a  stamp 
from  the  drawer  in  which  they  were  kept.  Having 
stamped  the  latter,  she  placed  this  torpedo  in  her 
pocket,  and,  running  out,  called  for  Norah  to  get  her 


GARRYOWEN  189 

hat  and  coat,  as  she  wanted  to  go  out  on  the 
Downs. 

Every  day  at  this  hour  Miss  Grimshaw  was  in  the 
habit  of  going  for  a  walk  and  taking  Effie  with  her. 
To-day,  returning  from  looking  at  the  horses,  she 
found,  to  her  surprise,  Effie  dressed  and  waiting. 

"  Which  way  shall  we  go  ?  "  asked  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Let's  go  through  the  village,"  said  Effie.  "  I  like 
the  village." 

It  was  a  moist  day,  damp  and  warm,  with  just  the 
faintest  threat  of  rain.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the 
season  for  the  West  Sussex  hounds.  They  had  met 
at  Rookhurst,  some  seven  miles  away,  and  there  was 
a  chance  of  getting  a  glimpse  of  them. 

As  they  passed  the  spot  where,  on  Saturday,  Miss 
Grimshaw  had  plucked  the  primrose  and  placed  it  in 
Mr.  Dashwood's  coat,  she  noticed  that  several  more 
were  out. 

"  I  say,"  said  Effiie,  as  though  she  were  a  thought 
reader,  "  why  did  Mr.  Dashwood  go  'way  Saturday  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  girl  with  a 
start.  "What  makes  you  ask?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Effie. 

Miss  Grimshaw  glanced  sideways  at  her  companion. 
Effie  had  lost  considerably  the  elfish  look  that  had  been 
a  striking  feature  in  the  child  during  her  long,  imagi- 
nary illness,  but  she  had  not  lost  it  entirely.  There 
was  still  something  old-fashioned  and  vaguely  uncanny 
about  her  at  times,  and  she  had,  without  doubt,  now 
and  then,  the  trick  of  saying  things  so  opposite  as  to 
hint  at  a  more  than  natural  intelligence.  Parrots 
have  this  peculiarity,  too. 


190  GARRYOWEN 

"  If  I  tell  you  something,"  said  Effie  suddenly,  "  you 
won't  tell  it  to  anyone  else,  will  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Say,  «  Ton  my  honour.'  " 

"  'Pon  my  honour." 

"  Well,  I  heard  something." 

"What  did  you  hear?" 

"  I  heard  Mr.  Dashwood  saying  he  was  an  ass." 

"Effie,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw  hurriedly,  "you  must 
never  repeat  things  you  hear." 

"  There  you  go ! "  said  Effie.  "  And  you  told  me 
to." 

"  I  didn't." 

«  You  did.    You  said,  '  What  did  you  hear?  »  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  not  know  it  was  anything  that  Mr. 
Dashwood  said." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  tell  you  what  he  said?  " 

"  Oh,  you  can  tell  if  you  like.  It  doesn't  matter  to 
me.  Where  did  you  hear  him  say  it?  " 

"  In  his  bedroom,  when  he  was  packing  his  bag. 
Papa  was  with  him;  the  door  was  open,  and  I  heard 
him  say  it ;  and  I  heard  papa  say  there  was  never  a  girl 
made  but  there  wasn't  a  better  girl  made  to  match  her, 
and  that  Mr  Dashwood  wasn't  to  bother  himself " 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  any  more." 

"  I  can't,  for  Norah  came,  and  I  ran  away." 

"Where  were  you?" 

"Listening  at  the  door." 

"  Well,  you  certainly  are  frank !  " 

"What's  that  mean?"  asked  Effie. 


GARRYOWEN  191 

"  It  means  that  you  deserve  a  whipping.  Come  on. 
And,  see  here,  Effie,  you  mustn't  say  anything  about 
that  to  anyone.  Have  you  told  anyone  else?  " 

"  Only  Norah." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  She  only  laughed." 

Miss  Grimshaw  felt  as  though  she  were  walking 
through  a  veil  of  blushes.  Happily  there  was  no  one 
to  see.  Bobby  Dashwood's  extraordinary  behaviour 
by  the  bridge  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  the 
fact  that  he  had  told  about  it  to  Mr.  French.  To  kiss, 
to  run  away,  to  tell !  She  knew  nothing  of  the  position 
of  the  two  men  towards  one  another;  she  only  knew 
just  what  had  occurred  on  the  bridge,  and  what  Effie 
had  told  her. 

The  uphill  path  to  the  village  went  between  a  double 
row  of  poplar  trees  and  debouched  on  the  Roman  road 
just  by  the  village  pump. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  post-office?  "  asked  Effie  as 
th'ey  drew  near  the  road. 

"  No.    I  haven't  anything  to  do  there." 

"  I  heard  papa  say  he  wanted  some  postcards." 

"  Well,  I've  forgotten  my  purse,  so  I  must  get  them 
to-morrow." 

"  Couldn't  you  put  them  down  in  the  bill?  " 

"  No.     Post-offices  don't  give  credit." 

Effie  hung  lovingly  on  her  companion's  arm.  They 
passed  into  the  village  street  and,  just  as  they  made 
the  turning,  the  thin,  insignificant  sound  of  a  hunting 
horn  came  on  the  wind. 

"  There's  the  hounds,"  said  Effie,  and  scarcely  had 


193  GARRYOWEN 

she  spoken  the  words  than,  topping  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  came  the  scarlet-clad  figures  of  the  master  and 
whips,  the  hounds,  and  after  the  hounds  the  hunt. 

The  fox  had  run  to  earth  in  Blankney  woods,  and 
they  were  going  now  to  draw  Fairholt's  spinney. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Effie. 

The  child  made  a  bolt  across  the  road,  and  so  swiftly 
that  Miss  Grimshaw  had  no  time  to  follow.  Hounds 
and  horses  blocked  the  road,  but  not  so  densely  as  to 
prevent  her  from  seeing  Effie  run  to  the  post-office  let- 
ter-box and  pop  something  in.  When  the  press  had 
gone  by,  and  the  road  was  clear,  Miss  Grimshaw 
crossed. 

"What  was  that  you  put  in  the  letter-box,  Effie?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Effie  with  a  laugh. 

"  Don't  say  that.  I  saw  you  putting  something  in. 
Was  it  a  stone?  " 

"  No,"  said  Effie.     "  It  wasn't  a  stone." 

"  You  know  what  they  do  to  children  who  put  rub- 
bish in  letter-boxes?" 

"  No." 

"  They  put  them  in  prison." 

"  Well,  they  won't  put  me  in  prison." 

"  Yes,  they  will.  And  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  it 
was,  I  will  go  in  and  ask  Mr.  Chopping  to  open  the 
box  and  then  send  for  a  policeman." 

Effie,  who  had  heard  her  elders  ridiculing  and  vilify- 
ing Mr.  Giveen  for  the  past  three  months,  had  thought 
it  a  fine  thing  to  play  a  joke  of  her  very  own  upon  him. 
She  knew  nothing  of  the  disastrous  nature  of  her  act, 
but  suddenly  interrupted  like  this  and  put  off  her 


GARRYOWEN  193 

balance  she  did  not  want  to  confess  it.  Besides,  she 
had  stolen  a  postage  stamp. 

"  Don't,"  said  Effie,  turning  very  pale. 

"  I  will,  if  you  don't  tell." 

"  Well,  it  was  only  a  letter." 

"A  letter?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Who  gave  it  you  to  post?" 

The  suggestion  created  the  lie. 

"  Papa." 

"  Well,  if  he  gave  you  it,  why  did  you  hide  it  and 
post  it  secretly  like  that?  " 

"  Pa  told  me  not  to  let  you  see  it,"  said  Effie. 

She  was  not  a  liar  by  nature,  but  children  have 
streaky  days  in  their  moral  life,  just  as  men  have,  and 
to-day  was  a  very  streaky  day  with  Effie.  She  had 
awakened  that  morning  predisposed  to  frowardness; 
a  slight  bilious  attack  had  made  her  fretful,  and  fret- 
fulness  always  made  her  impish.  The  devil,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  this  pathological  condition,  had  incited  her 
to  make  an  April  fool  of  Mr.  Giveen,  to  steal,  and  to 
lie. 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

They  walked  away  from  the  post-office,  taking  the 
downhill  road  to  the  bridge.  They  walked  hurriedly; 
at  least,  the  girl  did — Effie  had  almost  to  trot  in  order 
to  keep  up  with  her. 

A  nice  thing,  truly.  Here,  for  months,  she  had  been 
working  for  the  interests  of  a  man  who  to-day  had 
taken  a  child  into  his  confidence,  given  it  a  letter  to 
post,  and  instructions  to  keep  the  matter  hidden  from 


194  GARRYOWEN 

her.  Worse  than  that,  she  had  a  dim  suspicion  that 
the  letter  was  to  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  had  to  deal  with 
that  "  affair." 

She  had  taken  the  road  to  the  bridge  unconsciously, 
and  when  she  reached  it,  and  found  herself  at  the  very 
place  where  the  affair  had  occurred,  she  could  have 
wept  from  sheer  mortification,  only  for  the  presence  of 
the  culprit  at  her  side. 

"  Don't  tell  your  father  that  you  told  me  that, 
Effie,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  after  she  had  leaned  for  a 
moment  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  deep  in  troubled 
thought. 

"  No,"  said  Effie,  "  I  won't." 

Miss  Grimshaw  resumed  her  meditations,  and  Effie, 
very  quiet  and  strangely  subdued,  hung  beside  her, 
looking  also  at  the  river. 

Even  in  the  time  of  the  Roman  legionaries  lovers 
had  haunted  this  place.  What  a  story  it  could  have 
told  of  lovers  and  love  affairs  gone  to  dust !  But  from 
all  its  wealth  of  stories,  I  doubt  if  it  could  have  matched 
in  involution  and  cross-purpose  the  love  affair  in 
which  figured  Mr.  French,  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  the  girl 
in  the  Homburg  hat,  who  was  now  gazing  at  the  wim- 
pling  water  and  listening  to  the  moist  wind  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees. 

She  was  of  the  order  of  people  who  forgive  a  blow 
struck  in  anger  readily,  but  not  a  slight,  or  a  fancied 
slight.  French  had  slighted  her,  and  she  would  never 
forgive  him.  She  had  helped  him,  plotted  and  planned 
for  him,  and  it  had  all  ended  in  this ! 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  The  Martens 


GARRYOWEN  195 

as  quickly  as  might  be,  and  return  to  London ;  and  it 
was  only  now  that  she  recognised,  fully  shown  up 
against  the  background  of  her  resentment,  the  pleas- 
ant ties  and  interests  that  bound  her  to  these  people, 
ties  and  interests  that  would  have  to  be  broken  and  dis- 
solved. So,  in  a  fever  of  irritation,  she  told  herself 
as  she  leaned  on  the  low  parapet  and  looked  at  the 
river,  while  Effie  broke  pieces  of  mortar  from  the  cracks 
between  the  stones. 

What,  perhaps,  rankled  deepest  in  her  heart  was 
the  expression  used  by  French  and  repeated  by  Effie. 
*'  There  is  never  a  girl  but  you'll  find  a  better  one  to 
match  her  " — or  words  to  that  effect. 

Dinner  at  The  Martens  was  a  mid-day  function. 
At  half-past  one,  when  Mr.  French  came  home  from  a 
walk  over  the  high  Downs,  he  found  dinner  waiting  for 
him.  Miss  Grimshaw  during  the  meal  seemed  to  be  suf- 
fering from  a  dumbness  affecting  not  only  her  speech, 
but  her  manner;  her  movements  were  still  and  formal, 
and  inexpressive,  and  she  never  once  looked  in  his  di- 
rection, but  engaged  herself  entirely  with  Effie,  who 
also  had  a  wilted  air  and  appearance. 

At  tea  it  was  the  same. 

After  tea,  Mr.  French  lit  a  cigar  and  went  out  on 
the  verandah  to  smoke. 

He  could  not  make  it  out  at  all.  Something  had 
happened  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours  to  make  all  this 
difference  in  the  girl.  What  could  that  something  be? 
At  eleven  o'clock  she  had  been  all  right,  yet  at  half- 
past  one  she  was  a  different  person. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  keep  up  a  misunderstanding 


196  GARRYOWEN 

without  knowing-  the  reason  of  it,  and,  having  smoked 
his  cigar  half  through,  he  went  back  into  the  house 
and  to  the  sitting-room,  where  the  girl  was  curled  up 
on  the  sofa,  reading  "  Punch." 

"  Look  here,"  said  French,  "  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  un- 
curling herself  and  sitting  half  erect. 

"  What's  the  matter?  Something  is  wrong.  Have  I 
done  anything,  or  what  is  it?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Nothing  is  the  matter 
that  I  am  aware  of,  specially." 

"  Well,  now,  see  here,"  said  Mr.  French,  taking  a 
seat  close  by,  "  I  thought,  maybe,  you  seemed  so  silent, 
that  something  had  gone  wrong,  or  I'd  done  something 
that  displeased  you.  If  I  have,  just  let  me  know  it." 

Miss  Grimshaw  had  risen  erect,  and  now  she  was 
making  for  the  door. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  wrong.  I  call  subter- 
fuge wrong.  Perhaps  I  am  mistaken.  It's  all  a  matter 
of  opinion,  I  suppose — but,  anyhow,  it  is  not  worth 
discussing." 

Then  she  was  gone,  leaving  the  astonished  Mr. 
French  to  amuse  himself  with  the  problem  of  how  he 
had  employed  subterfuge,  and  against  whom. 

She  did  not  appear  at  supper,  alleging  a  headache. 

She  went  to  bed  at  nine. 


CHAPTER   XX 

TOWAEDS  midnight,  Miss  Grimshaw  was  awakened  from 
her  slumbers  by  a  sound  as  of  some  person  weeping 
and  wailing.  She  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened.  It  was 
Effie's  voice,  and  she  heard  her  own  name  called  re- 
peatedly. 

"Miss  Grimshaw!  Miss  Grimshaw!  Miss  Grim- 
shaw!" 

In  a  moment  she  was  out  of  bed  and  wrapped  in  a 
dressing-gown.  The  next,  she  was  in  Effie's  room. 

The  child  was  sitting  up  in  bed  in  the  moonlight. 
Her  subliminal  mind  had  constructed  a  nightmare  out 
of  a  gallows,  a  guilty  conscience,  and  a  stolen  postage- 
stamp. 

"  I  took  it  out  of  the  drawer  of  the  writing-desk. 
I  didn't  mean  it.  I  did  it  for  fun,"  cried  Effie,  her 
face  buried  in  the  girl's  shoulder.  "  And  I  dreamt. 
Ow!  Ow!" 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter?  " 

It  was  Mr.  French,  in  a  dressing-gown,  with  a 
lighted  candle  in  his  hand. 

You  cannot  weep  and  wail  in  a  pitch-pine  bungalow, 
resonant  as  a  fiddle,  without  disturbing  the  other  oc- 
cupants, and  behind  Mr.  French  moved  figures  dimly 
suggestive  of  the  chorus  of  the  Greek  drama  waiting 
to  come  on. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  matter  is,"  said  Miss  Grim- 
197 


198  GARRYOWEN 

shaw,  her  mind  divided  between  Effie  and  a  feeling  of 
thankfulness  that  she  had  her  slippers  on.  "  She  seems 
to  have  taken  a  postage  stamp  or  some  nonsense.  It's 
night  terror.  Now,  Effie,  don't  stop  crying  if  you 
feel  you  want  to,  but  just  tell  me  it  all.  Once  you 
have  told  me  it  all,  the  bad  things  will  go  away." 

"I  stuck  it  on  the  letter,"  sobbed  Effie,  who  had 
passed  from  the  howling  to  the  blubbering  stage,  "  an' 
I  stuck  the  letter  in  the  box ;  and  I  dreamt  Mr. 
Chopping  and  the  p'leeceman  were  going  to  hang 
me." 

"  Well,  they  aren't.  Mr.  Chopping  and  the  police- 
man are  in  bed.  So  it  was  a  letter?  And  how  about 
the  letter  your  father  gave  you  to  post  ?  " 

"  I  never  gave  her  a  letter,"  put  in  Mr.  French. 

"  I  only  made  it  up,"  said  Effie.  "  Father  never  gave 
me  anything.  It  was  only  my  letter  to  Cousin  Dick." 

"  Your  what?  "  said  French,  who  had  taken  his  seat 
on  the  end  of  the  bed,  and  was  now  holding  the  flat 
candlestick  so  that  the  candle-light  showed  up  Effie 
with  Rembrandtesque  effect. 

"  I  wrote  to  make  an  April  fool  of  him." 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  asked  French;  and  there  was 
a  tension  in  his  voice  unperceived  by  his  daughter,  but 
very  evident  to  Miss  Grimshaw,  and  even  to  Norah 
and  Mrs.  Driscoll,  who  were  listening  outside. 

"  I  only  said  *  April  fool,' "  replied  Effie,  who  had 
passed  now  into  the  sniffling  stage,  a  wan  smile  lighting 
up  her  countenance. 

"  Did  you  put  any  address  on  the  paper?  " 

"  No.    You  remember,  when  I  wrote  to  him  last  year 


GARRYOWEN  199 

on  the  1st  of  April,  and  you  said  I  ought  to  put '  April 
ass'?  Well,  I  put  'April  fool*  just  the  same  as 
then." 

"  He'll  know  her  writing,"  groaned  French,  speak- 
ing aloud,  yet  to  himself.  Then,  as  if  fearing  to  trust 
himself  to  speak  to  the  child,  he  turned  and  told  the 
servants  in  the  passage  to  be  gone  to  their  beds. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said  to  Miss  Grimshaw,  when 
Effie  had  at  last  lain  down,  eased  of  her  sin  and  its 
terrors,  "  come  into  the  sitting-room." 

They  went  into  the  sitting-room,  and  Mr.  French 
put  his  candle  on  the  table. 

"  Here's  a  kettle  of  fish,"  said  he. 

"  She  put  no  address  on  the  paper,"  said  Miss  Grim- 
shaw, "  but " 

"  The  post-mark." 

"  Yes,  the  post-mark.  I  was  thinking  of  that.  There 
is  one  comfort,  however;  the  post-mark  may  be  illegi- 
ble. You  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  read  a  post-mark 
very  often." 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  French,  with  dramatic  empha- 
sis. "  This  post-mark  won't  be  illegible ;  it  will  be  as 
plain  as  Nelson's  pillar.  I  know  it,  for  it's  just  this 
sort  of  thing  that  happens  in  life,  and  happens  to  me. 
The  letter  won't  get  lost;  if  the  mail  packet  was  to 
sink,  a  shark  would  rout  it  out  from  the  mail-bags  and 
swallow  it,  and  get  caught,  and  be  cut  open,  and  the 
letter  would  go  on  by  next  mail.  We're  done." 

"  Don't  lose  heart." 

"We're  done.  I  know  it.  And  to  think,  after  all 
our  plotting  and  planning,  that  a  child's  tomfoolery 


200  GARRYOWEN 

would  come,  after  all,  to  ruin  me.  I  could  skin  her 
alive  when  I  think  of  it." 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  turned.  A  little  white 
figure  stood  at  the  door.  It  was  Effie.  Seized  with  an 
overwhelming  spirit  of  righteousness,  hearing  her 
father's  voice  colloguing,  and  touched  with  desire  for 
adventure  and  a  kiss,  she  had  bundled  out  of  bed  and 
run  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  I  want  a  kiss,"  said  Effie. 

The  next  moment  she  was  in  her  father's  arms,  and 
he  was  kissing  her  as  though  she  had  brought  him  a 
fortune,  instead  of  ruin. 

The  next  moment  she  was  gone,  seeking  her  warm 
bed  rapidly,  and  as  the  sound  of  her  pattering  feet 
died  away  the  girl  turned  to  French,  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  We  aren't  done,"  said  she,  speaking  rapidly  and 
with  vehemence.  "We'll  get  the  better  of  them  yet. 
We'll  do  something,  and  we  have  time  to  prepare  our 
defence  against  them,  for  the  letter  won't  reach  Cloyne 
till  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  If  they  manage  to  do  me  in  this,"  said  French, 
"  I'll  shoot  Garryowen  with  my  own  hand,  and  I'll 
hang  for  Dick  Gdveen,  by  heavens ! " 

"  Hush !  There  is  no  use  in  giving  way  to  anger. 
We  must  have  a  council  of  war,  and  collect  all  our 
forces.  I  say " 

"Yes? 

"Mr.  Dashwood " 

The  girl  paused  for  a  moment,  then,  as  if  the  des- 


GARRYOWEN  201 

perate  nature  of  the  situation  made  everything  else  of 
small  account,  she  went  on: 

"Mr.  Dashwood  behaved  very  foolishly  the  other 
day,  and  ran  away  off  to  town.  We  must  send  him  a 
wire  to-morrow  morning  to  come  at  once.  I'll  send 
it.  And  look  here.  You  know  how  grumpy  I  was 
after  tea.  Well,  Effie,  in  that  fit  of  lying,  told  me  you 
had  given  her  a  letter  to  post  which  she  was  to  hide 
from  me.  Of  course,  I  ought  to  have  known  you 
wouldn't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  I  apologise.  Good- 
night." 

They  had  been  talking  to  each  other  attired  only  in 
their  dressing-gowns  and  slippers.  If  Crowsnest  so- 
ciety could  have  seen  them,  its  doors  would  have  been 
shut  against  them  from  that  night  forth  for  evermore. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

MR.  DASHWOOD'S  chambers  in  the  Albany  were  fur- 
nished according  to  the  taste  of  that  gentleman,  high 
art  giving  place  in  the  decorations  to  the  art  of  physi- 
cal culture.  Some  old  Rowlandson  prints  decorated  the 
walls,  together  with  boxing-gloves,  singlesticks,  and 
foils ;  the  few  books  visible  were  not  of  the  meditative 
or  devotional  order  of  literature,  Ruff,  Surtees,  and 
Pitcher  being  the  authors  most  affected  by  Mr.  Dash- 
wood. 

He  had  spent  a  very  miserable  Sunday.  Having 
written  and  posted  his  letters  to  Miss  Grimshaw  and 
French,  he  had  fallen  back  on  gloomy  meditation  and 
tobacco.  He  had  spent  Monday  in  trying  to  imagine 
in  what  manner  Miss  Grimshaw  had  taken  his  letter; 
he  had  taken  refuge  from  his  thoughts  at  the  Bridge 
Club,  and  had  risen  from  play  with  twelve  pounds  to 
the  good  and  feeling  that  things  had  taken  a  turn 
for  the  better;  and  on  Tuesday  morning,  as  he  was 
sitting  at  breakfast,  a  telegram  was  brought  to  him. 

"  Come  at  once ;  most  important. — Grimshaw, 
Crowsnest." 

"  French  has  dropped  dead,  or  the  place  has  caught 
fire,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  as  he  sprang  from  the  break- 
fast-table   to    the    writing-table   in    the    window    and 
opened  the  pages  of  the  ABC  railway  guide.    "  Rob- 
SOS 


GARRYOWEN  203 

ert,  rush  out  and  get  a  taxicab.  I've  just  time  to 
catch  the  11.10  from  Victoria.  Don't  mind  packing. 
I'll  pack  some  things  in  the  kit-bag.  Get  the  cab." 

He  stuffed  some  things  into  the  bag,  and  ten  minutes 
later  the  cab,  which  had  been  brought  up  to  the  Vigo- 
street  entrance  of  the  Albany,  was  taking  him  to  the 
station. 

That  some  disaster  had  happened  he  was  certain. 
Never  for  a  moment  did  he  dream  of  the  truth  of 
things.  The  vision  of  French  lying  dead,  Garryowen 
stricken  lame,  or  The  Martens  in  flames  alternated 
in  his  mind  with  attempts  to  imagine  how  the  girl  would 
meet  him,  what  she  would  say,  and  whether  she  would 
speak  of  the  occurrence  at  the  bridge. 

He  had  sent  a  wire  from  Victoria  telling  the  train 
by  which  he  was  coming,  and  as  they  drew  in  at  Crows- 
nest  Station  she  was  the  first  person  he  saw  upon  the 
platform.  As  they  shook  hands,  he  saw  at  once  that 
the  past  was  not  to  be  referred  to. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  said  the  girl.  "  You 
have  a  bag?  Well,  they'll  send  it  on.  We  can  walk 
to  the  house,  and  I  can  tell  you  everything  on  the 
way." 

"What  has  happened?" 

"  Disaster !  But  it's  not  so  much  what  has  hap- 
pened as  what  may  happen.  Effie — 

"  Has  she  had  an  accident?  " 

**  No,  she  hasn't  had  an  accident,  but  the  little  stupid 
posted  a  letter  yesterday  morning  to  Mr.  Giveen." 

"  A  letter  to  him !    Who  wrote  it?  " 

"  She  did.     She  wanted  to  make  an  April  fool  of 


204  GARRYOWEN 

him,  so  she  wrote  *  April  fool'  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
put  it  in  an  envelope,  directed  it,  and  posted  it." 

"  Good  heavens !  He'll  know  your  address  now,  and 
give  Lewis  warning,  and  you'll  have  the  bailiffs  in,  and 
the  house  will  be  seized." 

«  Exactly." 

"  But  stay  a  moment,"  said  Dashwood.  "  Did  she 
put  any  address  on  the  paper?  " 

"  No.  An  April  fool  letter  like  that  isn't  generally 
addressed  from  anywhere,  is  it?  But  the  post- 
mark  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  The  only  thing  is  this,"  said  she.  "  The  post-mark 
mayn't  be  legible.  Some  <5f  these  country  post-offices 
use  die-stamps  that  are  nearly  worn  out.  Now,  can 
you  remember?  I  have  written  you  several  letters 
since  we  came  here,  asking  you  to  bring  down  things 
from  London.  Can  you  remember  whether  the  post- 
marks were  legible  or  not?  " 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "I  can't."  Then, 
blushing  furiously,  "  But  we'll  soon  see." 

He  dived  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat, 
and  brought  out  a  small  bundle  of  letters.  There  were 
only  four  letters  in  the  bundle,  and  they  were  tied  to- 
gether with  a  narrow  piece  of  silk  ribbon.  When  the 
girl  saw  the  silk  ribbon,  she  bit  her  lip. 

"  Look ! "  said  he,  slipping  the  ribbon  off  and 
thrusting  it  into  his  pocket.  He  showed  her  the  first 
of  the  letters.  It  bore  the  Crowsnest  post-mark,  large 
as  a  penny,  clear,  and  legible. 

The  three  others  were  the  same. 


GARRYOWEN  205 

He  put  the  letters  back  in  his  pocket,  and  they  re- 
sumed their  way  in  silence.  You  would  never  have 
imagined  that  the  last  time  these  two  people  parted  the 
young  man  had  held  the  girl  in  his  arms,  kissing  her 
wildly. 

It  was  the  girl  who  broke  silence  first. 

"  Mr.  French  said  last  night  we  were  *  done,'  and 
I'm  afraid  he  never  spoke  a  truer  word." 

"  The  only  thing  I  can  think  of,"  said  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  "is  for  me  to  go  over  to  Ireland  and  try  to 
talk  Giveen  over." 

"  You  don't  know  him.  He's  a  fool,  and  a  vicious 
fool  at  that.  You  can't  talk  a  man  like  that  over." 

"  Well,  we  might  bribe  him." 

"  Mr.  French  has  no  money  to  bribe  him  with.  All 
his  money  is  on  this  race." 

"  The  City  and  Suburban  is  run  on  the  15th,"  said 
Mr.  Dashwood  meditatively,  "  so  we  have  more  than 
twelve  days.  Bother !  So  has  this  man  Lewis.  I  say, 
this  Giveen  must  be  a  beast.  What  makes  him  so 
anxious  to  have  his  knife  into  French?" 

"  I  believe  I  have  something  to  do  with  Mr.  Giveen 
having  his  knife  into  Mr.  French,"  said  Miss  Grim- 
shaw.  "  Didn't  Mr.  French  tell  you  about  the  boat- 
ing affair?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Giveen  took  me  out  in  the  boat  at  Drum- 
gool  to  see  the  coast." 

"  Yes." 

".He  rowed  into  a  sea  cave,  the  most  awful  place 
you  have  ever  seen,  and  then " 


206  GARRYOWEN 

"Yes?" 

"  He  rocked  the  boat,  pretending  he  was  going  to 
drown  me." 

"Brute!" 

"  That's  what  I  said  to  him.  He  was  laughing  all 
the  time,  you  know.  He  wanted  me  to — to — 

"Yes?" 

"  Give  him  a  kiss.  Ugh !  And  I  was  so  frightened 
I  promised  him  one  if  he  put  me  on  shore.  Well,  Mr, 
French  was  waiting  for  us  when  I  got  back,  and  I  told 
him  what  had  happened." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  He  kicked  Mr.  Giveen." 

"Good!"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "If  I'd  been  there 
I'd  have  drowned  him." 

"  Mr.  French  wanted  to.  At  least,  he  wanted  to 
duck  him." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Dashwood.  "  If  this  beast 
comes  near  Crowsnest,  I  won't  be  answerable  for  what 
I'll  do  to  him." 

"  That  would  be  the  worst  policy  in  the  world,"  said 
Miss  Grimshaw.  "  If  he  comes  here  we  must  meet  him 
with  his  own  weapons  if  we  can — but  he  won't  come 
here." 

In  this  she  was  wrong. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  so  much,"  she  finished,  "  only  for 
this  wretched  bazaar  on  the  5th.  I  have  to  help  at  a 
stall.  You  can  imagine  what  it  must  be  to  keep  a 
straight  face  and  smile  at  people  one  doesn't  particu- 
larly care  for,  standing  all  the  time,  as  it  were,  on  a 
powder  magazine.  Besides,  just  imagine,  if  a  man  in 


GARRYOWEN  207 

possession  came  down,  and  if  the  fact  leaks  out,  how 
all  these  Crowsnest  society  people  will  snub  us  and 
sneer  at  us!  You  don't  know  them.  I  do." 

"  There  are  an  awful  lot  of  old  cats  here,"  conceded 
Mr.  Dashwood,  not  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"  Makes  one  feel  one  would  like  to  put  out  poisoned 
milk  for  them,"  said  the  girl.  "  Well,  here  we  are,  and 
there's  Mr.  French." 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  path,  and  French, 
who  was  standing  in  the  verandah  of  the  bungalow, 
like  a  watchman  on  the  look-out  for  enemies,  hailed 
them. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

THAT  night,  at  a  consultation  held  between  these  three 
conspirators  against  misfortune,  it  was  decided  that 
nothing  could  be  done  but  wait. 

There  was  no  use  in  attempting  to  remove  Garry- 
owen  to  another  training  ground;  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  do  so  without  being  traced ;  besides,  there  was 
no  other  place  available.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  sit  still  and  wait  for  the  thunderbolt  to  fall,  if  it 
were  going  to  fall. 

The  bazaar  was  to  take  place  on  the  5th,  and  as 
day  followed  day  without  disaster  appearing  in  the 
form  of  a  bailiff,  Miss  Grimshaw  began  to  recognise 
that  the  forthcoming  function  was  a  blessing  in  dis- 
guise. It  was,  at  least,  a  visible  and  tangible  bother, 
and  helped  to  distract  the  mind  from  gloomy  specula- 
tions. 

It  was  to  take  place  in  the  school  building,  and  on 
the  4th,  much  to  the  delight  of  the  school  children,  a 
holiday  was  proclaimed.  Benches  and  blackboards  were 
turned  out  of  the  big  schoolroom,  the  walls  stripped 
of  maps  and  hung  with  ivy  and  flags,  and  stalls 
erected. 

As  money-making  was  the  primary  object  of  the 
function,  things  were  done  as  cheaply  as  possible.  Col- 
onel Bingham  lent  his  gardener,  the  Smith- Jacksons 
lent  the  weedy-looking  boy  who  rolled  their  tennis  lawn 
908 


GARRYOWEN  209 

and  cleaned  their  shoes,  Miss  Slimon  lent  her  house- 
maid, and  the  village  carpenter,  fuming  at  heart,  but 
constrained  to  please  his  customers,  lent  his  services — 
for  nothing. 

Miss  Grimshaw  was  to  assist  Miss  Slimon  at  the 
needlework  stall.  Mr.  Dashwood  had  already  lent  his 
services,  toiling  all  day  valiantly  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
nailing  up  green  stuff  on  the  walls,  tacking  baize  cov- 
ers on  the  tables,  even  carrying  baskets  of  crockery- 
ware  and  provisions,  and  to  such  good  effect  that  when, 
at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  they  closed  the  doors  and 
locked  them,  everything  was  in  place  and  ready  for 
the  next  day's  orgy. 

"Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood  as  they  sat  at 
breakfast  next  morning ;  "  Giveen  got  that  letter  on 
the  1st,  didn't  he?  Well,  if  he  had  been  up  to  any 
mischief  he  would  have  communicated  with  Lewis  at 
once.  I  bet  my  life  he  would  have  telephoned  to  him. 
Well,  this  is  the  5th.  Three  days  have  gone,  and 
nothing  has  happened." 

"What's  three  days?"  said  French.  "There  are 
ten  days  before  the  race,  and  I  can't  move  the  horse 
to  Epsom  till  the  13th,  so  that  gives  them  eight  days 
to  work  in." 

"Does  Giveen  know  Lewis'  address  in  London?" 

"  Faith,  I  don't  know,  but  he  can  easily  get  it  from 
Lewis'  bailiff,  who  must  have  been  down  at  Drumgool, 
kicking  his  heels,  a  week  now." 

"What  sort  of  moneylender  is  this  Lewis?" 

"  What  sort?  Why,  there's  only  one  sort  of  money- 
lender, and  that's  a  beast.  There's  nothing  to  be 


210  GARRYOWEN 

done  with  Lewis.  If  he  gets  my  address  here,  he'll  put 
in  a  man  to  seize  Garryowen,  and  I'll  be  kiboshed. 
Sure,  it's  enough  to  make  one  want  to  tear  one's  hair. 
The  colt's  in  the  pink  of  condition.  Another  week,  and 
he'll  be  perfect.  There's  nothing  that  puts  hoof  to 
turf  will  beat  him,  and  to  think  of  him  being  barred 
out  of  the  race  by  a  beast  of  a  moneylender  and  a  bum- 
bailiff  is  enough  to  drive  one  crazy." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  "  why  not  go  to 
Lewis,  explain  all,  and  offer  him  half-profits  if  the 
horse  wins  and  he  doesn't  interfere  with  its  running?  " 

"Give  him  half-profits!"  shouted  French,  nearly 
upsetting  his  teacup.  "  I'd  cut  his  throat  first ! " 

"  They  wouldn't  be  much  use  to  him  after,"  said 
Miss  Grimshaw,  rising  from  the  table.  *'  What  time 
is  it  now?  Ten?  Well,  shall  we  go  down  to  the  school- 
room, Mr.  Dashwood,  and  see  if  there  is  anything  more 
to  be  done  ?  Effie  can  come  too ;  it  will  keep  her  out  of 
mischief." 

It  was  a  glorious  spring  morning,  the  herald  of  a 
perfect  spring  day.  The  hedges  were  sprinkled  with 
tiny  points  of  green,  and  the  Crowsnest  children,  free 
of  school,  were  gathering  wild  violets  and  snowdrops 
and  primroses  in  the  woods  for  bazaar  purposes. 

The  bazaar  had  its  hand  upon  the  countryside  for 
miles  round.  The  church,  calling  for  new  choir-stalls, 
had  sent  the  little  children  into  the  woods  to  pick 
flowers  for  sale;  the  farmers'  wives  to  their  dairies  to 
make  butter ;  the  farmers'  daughters  answered  the  call 
with  crewel-work  and  pin-cushions ;  even  the  cottagers 
were  not  behind  with  gifts.  There  was  something  so 


GARRYOWEN  211 

pleasant  in  this  response  from  the  fields  and  the  hedge- 
rows, as  it  were,  that  it  made  one  almost  forget  the 
snobbishness,  small-mindedness,  and  pride  of  the  prime 
movers  in  the  affair. 

For  the  Fantodds,  who  lived  at  Mill  House,  were 
snobbish,  and  would  rout  out  trade  in  your  family-tree, 
even  if  the  disease  were  hidden  deep  and  forgotten  at 
its  roots ;  and  not  only  rout  it  out,  but  sniff  and  snort 
over  it.  Colonel  Bingham — I  think  I  called  him  Gen- 
eral before,  but  we  will  reduce  him,  for  punishment, 
to  the  rank  of  Colonel — Colonel  Bingham  was  an  Army 
snob ;  a  well-born,  kindly,  and  handsome  old  gentleman, 
but  still  a  snob.  The  Creeps  were  puffed  up  with  pride ; 
a  drunken  baronet  who  had  married  a  cousin  of  Colonel 
Creeps  acted  in  this  family  just  as  a  grain  of  soda  acts 
in  a  mass  of  dough,  leavening  the  lump.  The  Smith- 
Jacksons,  the  Dorian-Grays  (most  unfortunate  name, 
assumed  in  the  seventies),  the  Prosser-Joneses  all  suf- 
fered from  this  perfectly  superfluous  disease. 

The  schoolroom,  when  they  reached  it,  was  having 
a  last  finishing  touch  put  to  the  decorations  by  Miss 
Slimon ;  so,  finding  nothing  to  do,  they  returned  to 
The  Martens. 

They  were  in  that  condition  of  mind  that,  going  even 
for  a  short  walk,  dread  would  be  ever  present  in  their 
minds  that  on  returning  to  the  house  they  would  find 
Garryowen  "  seized "  and  a  bailiff  sitting  in  the 
kitchen.  This  dread,  which  had  something  of  pleas- 
ant excitement  about  it,  this  ever-present  fear  of  dan- 
ger, had  drawn  French,  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  the  girl 
together  again  in  a  family  party,  a  corporate  body. 


213  GARRYOWEN 

Love,  though  he  hovered  over  them,  could  not  divide 
or  disunite  them  till  the  adventure  they  were  bound 
together  in  was  completed. 

They  were  united  against  a  common  enemy,  so  united 
that,  by  a  process  of  telepathy,  gloom  affecting  one 
would  affect  the  rest:  hilarity  likewise.  To-day  at 
luncheon  they  were  hilarious,  as  an  offset  to  their 
gloominess  at  breakfast.  A  bottle  of  Pommery  as- 
sisted their  spirits ;  they  drank  confusion  to  Lewis  and 
benightment  to  Mr.  Giveen.  They  were  fey. 

The  bazaar  was  to  be  declared  open  at  half-past 
two  by  Mrs.  Bingham,  and  at  half-past  two  a  long 
line  of  carriages  stood  in  the  roadway  outside  the  red- 
brick school-house ;  the  place  inside  was  hot  and  stuffy, 
crammed  with  the  elite  of  Crowsnest  and  smelling  of 
glue,  raw  pine  boards,  and  coffee.  A  huge  coffee  urn, 
with  steam  up,  at  the  refreshment  stall,  spoke  of  the 
rustics  who  would  invade  the  place  at  three  o'clock, 
when  the  price  of  admission  was  to  be  lowered  to  six- 
pence, and  answered  with  a  cynical  hissing  the  an- 
nouncement of  Mrs.  Bingham  that  the  bazaar  was  now 
open,  and  the  little  speech  which  that  excellent  lady 
had  been  preparing  for  three  days  and  rehearsing  all 
the  morning. 

Miss  Grimshaw,  whose  place  was  at  the  fancy-work 
stall,  and  whose  duty  it  was  to  assist  Miss  Slimon  in 
the  most  nefarious,  if  undisguised,  robbery  of  cus- 
tomers, found  time  in  the  midst  of  her  duties  to  take 
in  the  doings  of  her  neighbours.  Bobby  Dashwood 
was  much  in  evidence,  buying  nothing,  but  officiating 
as  an  unsolicited  and  highly  successful  salesman,  flirt- 


GARRYOWEN 

ing  with  mature  spinster  stallholders,  and  seeming  to 
enjoy  his  position  immensely. 

Miss  Grimshaw  noted  with  a  touch  of  regret  this 
flaw  in  his  character,  but  she  had  not  time  to  dwell  upon 
it.  The  six-penny  barrier  was  now  down,  and  the  place 
that  had  been  full  before  was  now  all  but  packed. 
Farmers  and  their  wives  and  daughters,  cottagers,  and 
humble  folk  permeated  the  crowd.  Every  now  and 
then  the  throb  of  a  motor-car  coming  to  rest  an- 
nounced some  fresh  arrival  from  a  distance.  Mr. 
French  was  not  there.  He  had  said  that  he  might 
look  in  later  in  the  afternoon,  but  he  had  not  yet 
arrived.  It  was  now  four  o'clock,  and  the  girl,  half- 
dazed  by  the  stuffy  air  of  the  place,  the  buzz  of 
tongues,  and  the  endeavour  to  make  correct  changes, 
was  resting  for  a  moment  on  a  ledge  of  the  stall,  when 
a  voice  brought  her  to  her  senses  and  made  her  start 
to  her  feet. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  dolls,"  said  the  voice. 
"  Sure,  what  would  I  be  doing  with  dolls  at  my  age? 
No,  thank  you,  I  don't  smoke,  and  if  I  did  I  wouldn't 
do  it  in  a  smoking-cap.  No,  thanks ;  I  just  looked  in 
to  see  what  was  going  on.  I'm  strange  to  the  place. 
I've  only  left  Ireland  the  day  before  yesterday,  and 
it's  half  moidthered  I  am  still  with  me  journey." 

As  a  gazelle  by  the  banks  of  the  Zambesi  starts  from 
her  couch  of  leaves  at  the  voice  of  the  leopard,  so  Miss 
Grimshaw,  at  the  sound  of  this  voice  started  from  the 
ledge  of  the  fancy-work  stall  and  looked  wildly  round 
her. 

In   the  crowd,  beset  by   two   ardent   spinsters,  one 


214.  GARRYOWEN 

armed  with  a  smoking-cap  and  the  other  with  a  Teddy 
bear,  she  saw  a  bubble-faced  gentleman  in  grey  tweeds. 
Almost  with  the  same  sweep  of  the  eye  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Bobby  Dashwood  at  the  bran-pie  corner. 
The  wretched  Bobby,  in  his  glory  was  standing  on  a 
tub  inviting  speculators  to  take  a  dip.  Next  moment 
she  had  reached  him,  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve 
and  was  leading  him  to  the  door.  She  did  not 
speak  till  they  were  in  the  porch,  which  was  de- 
serted. 

"Bobby— Mr.  Dashwood— he's  here!" 

"Who?" 

"Mr.  Giveen." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.     "Giveen!" 

"  Yes.  They're  trying  to  sell  him  dolls.  Quick,  we 
haven't  a  moment  to  waste.  He  doesn't  know  you, 
does  he?" 

"  No.  He  never  came  to  Drumgool  when  I  was 
there." 

"  Get  close  to  him,  get  to  speak  to  him.  Don't  lose 
sight  of  him.  Pump  him.  Oh,  use  your — your  intel- 
lect now!  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do,  but  try  to 
get  hold  of  his  plans." 

"Trust  me,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "I'll  do  my 
best." 

"  Well,  go  at  once.  I'll  follow  you  back.  If  you 
get  to  talk  with  him  much,  pretend  you're  an  enemy 
of  Mr.  French's.  He's  in  grey  tweeds,  with  an  Irish 
voice.  You  can't  mistake  him." 

"Trust  me,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

Next  moment,  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  sweltering 


GARRYOWEN  215 

mob,  boring  his  way  diligently  through  it,  his  eyes  and 
ears  on  the  alert  for  the  sight  of  the  grey  tweeds  and 
the  sound  of  the  Irish  voice. 

It  was  at  the  refreshment  stall  that  he  found  his 
prey. 

Mr.  Giveen,  with  a  cup  of  tea  in  one  hand  and  a 
bun  in  the  other,  was  talking  to  Miss  Smith- Jackson, 
who  was  replying  in  icy  monosyllables. 

"  Faith,  and  the  country  about  here  is  very  different 
from  the  country  I  come  from.  You  don't  know  where 
that  is,  do  you?  Do  you,  now?  Well,  I'll  tell  ye; 
it's  the  country  of  pretty  girls  and  good  whisky.  Not 
that  I  ever  drink  it.  What  are  you  smilin'  at?  I 
give  you  me  oath,  a  sup  of  whisky  hasn't  passed  me 
lips  these  twenty  years." 

"One  and  six,  please,"  replied  Miss  Smith- Jackson, 
in  still  icier  monosyllables. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Mr.  Giveen,  who  had 
swallowed  his  bun  and  was  now  "  saucering  "  his  tea, 
Anglice  drinking  it,  for  coolness,  out  of  the  saucer. 

"  One  and  six,  please." 

"And  for  what,  if  you  please?  Do  you  mane  to 
tell  me  you're  going  to  charge  me  one  and  six  for  a 
cup  of  tea  and  a  bun?  " 

"  Our  charge  is  one  and  sixpence." 

'*  May  I  never  swallow  bite  or  sup  again  if  this  isn't 
the  biggest  '  do  '  I  ever  came  across !  And  I  paying 
sixpence  at  the  door  to  get  in,  and  they  told  me,  when 
I  asked  them,  the  refreshments  were  free.  I  won't 
pay  it." 

"  Then  please  take  it  as  a  gift." 


216  GARRYOWEN 

"A  gift!"  cried  Mr.  Giveen.  "When  did  ever  a 
Giveen  take  food  and  drink  as  a  gift?  Is  it  a  tramp 
you're  takin'  me  for?  Here's  sixpence,  and  that's 
tuppence  too  much,  but  you  can  keep  the  change." 

"  Colonel  Bingham !  "  said  Miss  Smith-Jackson,  per- 
fectly unmoved. 

The  Colonel,  who  had  overheard  the  end  of  Mr. 
Giveen's  remarks,  came  to  the  table. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Bingham,  "  what's  the 
trouble?" 

"  Trouble !  Here's  sixpence — a  fair  price  for  what 
I've  had.  One  and  sixpence,  she  asked  me — one  and 
sixpence  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  bun !  " 

Mr.  Giveen,  who  had  never  been  to  a  bazaar  in  his 
life,  and  who,  justly  enough,  felt  outraged,  held  out 
his  sixpence,  this  time  to  Colonel  Bingham. 

Colonel  Bingham  looked  from  the  sixpence  to  Mr. 
Giveen,  and  from  Mr.  Giveen  to  the  sixpence. 

"  I  think,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Bingham,  "  you  have 
mistaken  the  place  where  you  are.  If  you  will 
kindly  step  outside  with  me,  I  will  point  you  out  the 
way  to  the  village  inn,  and  your  admission  fee  will  be 
returned  to  you  at  the  door." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Mr.  Dashwood  struck 
in.  The  crowd  immediately  in  their  vicinity  had 
stepped  back  slightly,  making  a  small  arena,  as  people 
do  around  a  street  accident  or  a  dog-fight.  In  the 
middle  of  this  arena  stood  the  outraged  Mr.  Giveen, 
facing  the  Colonel.  A  moment  more,  and  who  knows 
what  might  have  happened  only  for  the  intervention  of 
Bobby? 


GARRYOWEN  217 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Bobby,  addressing  the  Colonel, 
"  but  this  gentleman  is  Irish  and  unacquainted  with 
our  customs.  The  whole  of  this,  I  believe,  is  a  mistake, 
and  if  he  will  step  outside  with  me,  I  will  explain 
everything  to  him.  I  am  sure  that,  as  an  Irish  gentle- 
man, he  will  agree  with  me  that  little  affairs  about 
money  are  better  settled  in  private." 

"  Now,  that's  common  sense,"  said  the  gentleman 
from  Ireland.  "  I  haven't  the  pleasure  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, sir,  but  I  place  me  honour  in  your  hands." 

"  Come  on,  then,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  and,  taking 
the  other  by  the  arm,  he  led  the  way  through  the  crowd 
towards  the  door. 

"  Now  we're  all  right,"  said  he,  when  they  found 
themselves  in  the  open  air.  "  I  say,  you're  well  out 
of  it,  and  I  wouldn't  go  back  if  I  were  you.  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  they  wanted  to  rook  you  of  one  and 
six  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  bun  ?  " 

"  They  did  that,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  chuckle. 
"  They  thought  they'd  caught  an  omadhaun  asleep ; 
but,  faith,  they  thought  wrong ! " 

"  You  were  too  sharp  for  them,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 
"  I  saw  you  come  in.  I'm  down  here  for  the  day,  and 
I  just  dropped  into  the  place;  then  I  heard  you  talk- 
ing to  the  girl  behind  the  stall,  and  chaffing  her,  and 
telling  her  you  were  Irish;  then  I  heard  the  row  and 
came  to  your  assistance.  I  like  Irish  people.  Are  you 
staying  here?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Giveen.  "  I  just  came  down  for 
the  day.  Do  you  live  here?" 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.     "  I  just  came  down  for 


218  GARRYOWEN 

the  day.  I  live  in  London.  But  I'm  jolly  glad  to 
have  met  you;  it's  a  relief  to  come  across  a  genuine 
Irishman  with  some  wit  in  him.  I  say,  I'm  jolly  glad 
you  put  that  girl  in  her  place.  She's  a  cheeky  beast. 
Come  along  into  the  inn  and  have  a  drink." 

They  had  been  walking  towards  the  inn,  and  Mr. 
Dashwood,  taking  his  companion's  arm,  guided  him, 
nothing  loth,  through  the  entrance  and  into  the  bar- 
parlour. 

"  Now  we're  all  right,"  said  Bobby,  taking  his  seat 
and  rapping  on  the  counter  with  a  half-sovereign. 
"  Cock  yourself  up  on  that  stool.  What'll  you 
have?" 

"  Thanks,  I'll  have  a  stone  gingerbeer  and  a  biscuit, 
if  it's  all  the  same  to  you." 

"  A  whisky  and  soda,  a  stone  gingerbeer,  and  some 
biscuits,  please,  Mrs.  Stonnor."  Then,  while  the  land- 
lady was  serving  them,  "  You  are  staying  in  London, 
I  think  you  told  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Giveen.  "  I'm  on  a  little  holiday, 
and  I  just  ran  down  here  to-day  to  see  the  country. 
Do  you  know  the  country  round  about  here?  " 

"Rather!" 

"And  the  people?" 

"  Most  of  them." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  Mr.  Giveen.  "  Do  you  hap- 
pen to  know  any  one  of  the  name  of  French  that's 
staying  in  the  neighbourhood?  " 

"  Michael  French,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That's  him." 

"  Oh,  good  heavens !  I  should  think  I  did.  'An 
awful  chap.  I  had  a  row  with  him." 


GARRYOWEN  219 

"Did  you,  now?  So  you  had  a  row  with  him? 
Faith,  he's  always  rowing  with  people,  and  it's  my  be- 
lief he'll  do  it  once  too  often." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  said  Bobby,  who  in  his  few 
minutes'  knowledge  of  Mr.  Giveen  had  taken  a  hearty 
and  whole-souled  dislike  to  him  that  amounted  almost 
to  a  hatred. 

"Know  him!"  said  Mr.  Giveen.  «  None  better.  I 
just  came  down  to  ask  after  him,  but  since  I've  met 
you,  you  can  tell  me  all  I  want  to  know." 

"  Delighted,  I'm  sure." 

"  He's  got  some  horses  down  here?  " 

"  Yes,  so  I  believe." 

"  And  he's  got  his  little  daughter  and  the  governess 
with  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  he  has  a  child  and  a  young  lady  is 
staying  with  him,  a  Miss — Grim — something." 

"  Grimshaw." 

"  That's  it— Grimshaw." 

"  That's  all  I  want  to  know,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  and 
there  was  a  satisfied  malignity  in  his  tone  which,  com- 
bined with  the  soft  stupidity  of  his  manner  and  face, 
made  Mr.  Dashwood  think  of  reptiles  and  those  jelly- 
fish that  blister  and  sting. 

A  mad  desire  to  kick  Mr.  Giveen  off  the  high  stool 
he  was  perched  on  was  overcome  by  a  tremendous  ef- 
fort. The  young  man  recognised  that  the  whole  of 
French's  fortune  and  future  was  in  his  hands,  and  that 
it  all  depended  on  how  he  played  his  game  whether  this 
noxious,  soft,  and  venomous  enemy  was  to  be  frustrated 
in  his  plans  or  not. 

Bobby,  at  the  moment,  had  no  plans,  but  he  had  this 


220  GARRYOWEN 

advantage — he  knew  Giveen's  game,  and  Giveen  did 
not  know  his. 

"The  row  I  had  with  French,"  said  the  artful 
Bobby,  "  showed  me  what  the  man  was.  I  was  up  on 
the  Downs  one  day  when  he  was  exercising  his  beastly 
horses,  and  he  asked  me  what  I  was  doing  there. 
What  I  was  doing  there!  As  if  the  Downs  belonged 
to  him !  And  I  told  him  to  go  and  hang  himself,  and 
— as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  threatened  to  kick  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  "  he's  great  at  kicking,  is 
Michael.  But  he'll  kick  once  too  often  one  of  these 
days." 

He  rubbed  his  hands  together  softly  and  chuckled 
to  himself. 

"  He  will,"  said  Bobby.  "  I'd  give  anything  to  get 
even  with  him  and  pay  him  back.  I  say,  what  brought 
you  into  that  bazaar  place?" 

"What  brought  me  in?"  said  Giveen.  "Why, 
what  else  but  a  girl?  " 

"A  girl?" 

"Faith,  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw.  I  was  com- 
ing along  the  street  here,  looking  for  someone  to  ask 
them  where  French  lived,  when  a  motor-car  stopped 
at  that  red-brick  place,  and  out  of  a  motor-car  steps 
a  girl  with  a  face  like  a  tea-rose.  The  instant  her  eye 
lit  on  me  she  smiles.  Now,  when  a  girl  smiles  at  a 
fellow  like  that,  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  That  she's  fallen  in  love  with  you,  of  course," 
replied  Mr.  Dashwood,  looking  at  the  face  and  figure 
of  his  companion  as  one  looks  at  a  Toby  jug  on  a 
Hogarth  print,  allured  yet  repelled  by  its  grotesque- 
ness. 


GARRYOWEN  221 

"Well,"  went  on  Mr.  Giveen,  "what  does  a  fellow 
do  when  a  girl  looks  at  him  like  that  but  follow  her? 
So  in  I  went,  and  a  chap  at  the  door  stops  me.  '  Six- 
pence,' says  he.  *  What  for?'  says  I.  *  To  go  into 
the  bazaar,'  says  he.  *  What  are  they  doin'  there?  ' 
says  I.  '  Selling  things,'  says  he.  '  I  want  a  cup 
of  tea,'  says  I,  *  but  I'm  not  goin'  to  pay  sixpence 
to  go  in  and  get  it.'  '  Oh,'  he  says,  '  they  give  re- 
freshment away  for  nothing  to  such  as  you.'  So  in  I 
went." 

"  Just  so,"  cut  in  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  See  here,  when 
are  you  going  back  to  town?" 

"  By  the  half-past  five  train." 

"  Are  you  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  ?  " 

"  Faith,  and  I  am.  I've  done  my  business  here,  and 
I've  more  business  to  do  in  town." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Bobby.  "  I've  been  thinking 
you're  just  the  man  who  might  help  me.  I  want  to 
play  this  fellow  French  a  trick." 

"  Sure,"  said  the  other,  "  our  minds  are  jumpin*.  A 
trick?  Why,  that's  the  game  I'm  after  myself." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Bobby,  "  of  rotting  him  by 
sending  him  a  telegram  from  town  to  tell  him  to  come 
up  at  once,  as  some  relation  was  ill.  The  only  thing 
is  I  don't  know  if  he  has  any  relations  in  town." 

"  That's  no  use,"  said  Giveen.  "  You  leave  me  to 
play  him  a  trick.  See  here." 

"Yes?" 

"  The  chap's  rotten  with  debt." 

"  Debt !     Why,  I  thought  he  was  a  rich  man." 

"  Rich !  He's  as  poor  as  Brian  O'Lynn.  !And, 
look  here — he's  down  here  in  hiding!" 


222  GARRYOWEN 

"Hiding?" 

"Aye,  hiding  from  the  bailiffs." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Bobby.  "Why,  everyone 
here  thinks  he's  a  great  swell." 

"  He's  run  away  from  Ireland,  him  and  his  horses, 
and  done  it  so  cleverly  that  no  one  knows  where  he's 
gone  to ;  but  I've  found  out.  It's  the  truth  I'm  telling 
you.  Well,  now,  see  here.  He  owes  a  chap  in  London 
no  end  of  money ;  the  chap's  name  is  Lewis,  and  Lewis 
sent  a  man  to  French's  house  over  in  Ireland  to  take 
possession.  Hammering  away  at  the  house  door,  the 
man  was,  and  it  empty.  Well,  I  got  an  inkling  from 
a  letter  that  Michael  French  himself  and  his  daughter 
and  his  governess  and  his  horses  were  down  here,  and 
here  I've  come  to  find  out ;  and  here  he  is,  and  it's  to- 
morrow morning  I'm  going  to  see  Lewis,  and  it's  to- 
morrow night  the  bailiffs  will  be  in  at  French's." 

"  Gloats !  "  cried  Bobby.  "  Oh,  this  is  too  much  of 
a  good  thing  all  at  once.  Why,  it  will  crack  French 
up  and  ruin  him!  All  the  people  here  will  cut  him. 
He'll  be  done  for,  utterly  done  for ! " 

"  He'll  get  such  a  twisting  he'll  never  get  over  it," 
said  Giveen.  "  It'll  mean  pretty  nigh  the  workhouse 
for  him  and  his  brat.  Cocking  her  up  with  a  gov- 
erness !  And,  see  here " 

"Yes?" 

"  That  governess  is  all  me  eye ! " 

Mr.  Giveen  accompanied  this  cryptic  remark  with  a 
wink  that  spoke  volumes  of  libel  and  slander,  and  Mr. 
Dashwood  rose  from  his  seat  and  executed  a  double- 
shuffle  on  the  bar-room  floor. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  Giveen. 


GARRYOWEN  223 

"Doing?  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  burst!  To 
think  of  getting  even  with  that  man!  See  here,  you 
must  come  up  to  town  and  dine  with  me." 

"  Sure,  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  But  I  haven't 
the  honour  of  knowing  your  name  yet.  Me  name's 
Giveen." 

"  And  mine's  Smith.  Where  are  you  staying  in 
town?" 

"  I'm  staying  at  Swan's  Temperance  Hotel,  in  the 
Strand." 

Mr.  Dashwood  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  It  wants  ten  minutes  to  five.  We  may  as  well  get 
to  the  station.  Have  another  drink  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  who 
worked  on  a  fixed  principle  of  never  refusing  anything 
he  could  get  for  nothing. 

Bobby  Dashwood  called  for  more  gingerbeer,  which 
his  companion  consumed.  Then  they  started  for  the 
station. 

The  only  plan  Mr.  Dashwood  had  in  his  mind  for 
the  moment  was  to  cling  to  his  companion.  If  the 
worst  came  to  the  worst,  he  would,  at  least,  have  the 
satisfaction  of  kicking  the  traitor  into  the  street  out 
of  Lewis'  office,  where  he  determined  to  accompany  him. 
But  he  felt  dimly  there  was  a  chance  between  this  and 
to-morrow  morning  of  doing  something  to  save  French. 

If  Giveen  had  only  been  a  drinker,  the  path  would 
have  been  clearer.  The  man  who  gets  jolly  has  always 
soft  spots  one  can  work  on.  But  Mr.  Giveen  had  no 
soft  spots.  He  was  soft  all  over,  with  hard  spots  in 
him  here  and  there,  and  the  hardest  of  all  these  spots 
was  his  hatred  of  French. 


CHAPTER!   XXIII 

ME.  DASHWOOD,  piloting  his  undesirable  companion, 
led  the  way  to  the  station,  where  they  arrived  ten 
minutes  before  the  train  was  due. 

He  had  seven  pounds,  the  remains  of  the  twelve 
pounds  he  had  won  at  the  Bridge  Club,  and  he  thanked 
fervently  the  powers  above  that  he  had  the  money 
about  his  person.  To  have  left  Mr.  Giveen  while  he 
rushed  back  to  The  Martens  for  the  sinews  of  war 
would  have  been  a  highly  dangerous  proceeding.  He 
felt  intuitively  that  Giveen  was  one  of  those  people 
who,  incapable  of  trust,  have  no  trust  in  others,  and 
that  once  this  gentleman's  suspicions  were  aroused, 
the  affair  would  be  hopeless. 

Above  Bobby's  intense  desire  to  save  French  and 
thwart  his  enemy  was  the  desire  to  shine  in  the  eyes 
of  Violet  Grimshaw,  to  execute  some  stroke  of  finesse, 
to  trump  the  ace  that  Fate  had  suddenly  laid  down 
on  the  card-table  on  which  French  was  playing  the 
greatest  game  of  his  life. 

And  he  had  not  a  trump-card,  to  his  knowledge. 

The  train  came  steaming  in,  disgorged  a  few  pas- 
sengers, received  some  baskets  of  country  produce,  and 
steamed  out  again,  with  Mr.  Dashwood  and  his  antag- 
onist seated  opposite  to  one  another  in  a  third-class 
smoking  carriage. 

Dashwood  was  by  no  means  an  "intellectual,"  yet 
234 


GARRYOWEN  225 

before  they  reached  Victoria  the  unintellectuality  of 
Mr.  Giveen  had  reduced  him  from  a  condition  of  mild 
wonder  to  pure  amazement.  An  animal  of  the  meanest 
description  would  have  been  a  far  preferable  compan- 
ion to  this  gentleman  from  over  the  water,  childish 
without  the  charm  of  childhood,  ignorant,  and  little- 
minded. 

As  Mr.  Dashwood  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  at 
Victoria  he  saw,  amid  the  crowd  on  the  platform,  a 
figure  and  a  face  that  he  knew. 

A  tall  girl  with  red  hair  and  a  good-looking  but 
rather  masculine  face,  dressed  in  a  tailor-made  gown 
of  blue  serge,  and  wearing  pince-nez — that  was  the 
apparition  that  brought  Mr.  Dashwood  to  a  pause  and 
caused  him  for  a  moment  to  forget  Mr.  Giveen. 

It  was  Miss  Kitchen,  the  high-minded  girl  with  the 
latchkey,  the  student  of  eugenics  and  sociology,  the 
lady  who,  in  a  moment  of  mental  aberration,  had  en- 
gaged herself  to  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  who,  after  re- 
covering her  senses,  had  disengaged  herself,  much  to 
Mr.  Dashwood's  relief.  She  was  evidently  looking  for 
some  friend  expected  but  not  arrived. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Dashwood  paused.  He  had  never 
loved  Miss  Hitchen,  but  he  had  always  felt  a  profound 
respect  for  her  intellect  and  a  grasp  of  things.  In  his 
present  quandary,  with  French's  fate  literally  in  his 
hands,  and  with  no  idea  how  to  preserve  it,  the  clever 
and  capable  face  of  Miss  Hitchen  came  as  a  light  to 
a  man  in  darkness. 

They  had  parted  in  amity.  In  fact,  the  last  words 
Miss  Hitchen  had  said  to  him  were  of  a  nature  almost 


226  GARRYOWEN 

prophetic.  "  Bobby,"  she  said,  "  if  your  irresponsibil- 
ity ever  gets  you  into  any  scrape,  and  I  can  help  you, 
lei;  me  know,  for  you  are  just  the  sort  of  boy  that  gets 
into  scrapes  that  only  women  can  help  a  man  out 
of." 

"Wait  for  me  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood  to 
Mr.  Giveen.  Then,  pushing  through  the  crowd,  he 
touched  Miss  Kitchen  lightly  on  the  arm. 

She  turned. 

"Bobby!" 

"  I'm  so  awfully  glad  to  see  you — you  can't  tell. 
I  say,  I'm  in  a  scrape — not  me,  but  another  man.  I 
can't  explain  everything  at  once.  Don't  think  there's 
anything  wrong,  but  a  man's  whole  fortune  is  hanging 
in  the  balance,  and  I  want  you  to  help  to  save  it.  Just 
look  round  there.  Do  you  see  that  fellow  in  grey 
tweed,  with  a  face  like  an — I  don't  know  what  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Kitchen,  gazing  at  Mr.  Giveen. 
"  Is  he  the  man  in  the  scrape  ?  " 

"  No,  he's  the  scrape.  See  here — will  you  drive  with 
us  to  the  Albany,  and  I'll  leave  him  in  there,  and  we 
can  speak  about  the  thing.  He's  a  gentleman,  and 
all  that,  but  he's  slightly  mad,  and  the  whole  thing  is 
most  curious." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Kitchen.  "  I  came  here  to  meet 
a  girl,  but  she  hasn't  turned  up.  If  I  can  help  you  in 
any  way,  I'm  willing." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  introduce  you  to  him,  and  I  wish 
you'd  study  him  on  the  way  to  the  Albany.  I  can't 
tell  you  the  importance  of  all  this  till  we  have  a  mo- 
ment together  alone." 


GARRYOWEN  227 

Mr.  Dashwood  left  his  companion  and  made  through 
the  crowd  towards  Mr.  Giveen. 

"  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  I've  just  met  a 
lady  friend,  a  most  charming  girl,  and  she  wants  to 
be  introduced  to  you." 

"Sure,  with  pleasure,"  replied  the  lady-killer. 

"Well,  come  along,  then." 

He  led  him  by  the  arm  towards  where  the  girl  was 
standing,  and  effected  the  introduction. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  as  you  say  you  are  going  in  my 
direction,  if  the  presence  of  myself  and  my  friend 
Giveen  here  will  not  bore  you,  may  I  ask  you  to  take 
a  seat  in  my  cab  ?  " 

"Oh,  you  won't  bore  me,"  replied  Miss  Hitchen, 
who  with  a  searching  glance  had  taken  in  the  face, 
form,  and  bearing  of  Giveen  and  who  felt  for  this  new 
type  of  individual  something  of  the  interest  a  natural- 
ist feels  on  coming  across  a  new  species  of  insect. 
"  You'll  amuse  me." 

"Faith,  we'll  try  our  best,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  while 
Bobby  Dashwood  went  in  search  of  a  taxicab. 
"There's  nothing  like  fun,  is  there?  And,  faith,  it's 
fun  we've  been  having  to-day,  Mr.  Smith  and  I." 

"Mr.  Smith?"  said  Miss  Hitchen,  and  then  recog- 
nising in  a  flash  that  the  pseudonym  was  part  of  some 
artless  plan  of  Bobby's,  "Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Smith.  You 
mean  my  friend  who  has  just  introduced  us.  And 
what  have  you  been  doing?  I  mean,  what  did  your 
fun  consist  of?  " 

"Faith,  it  mostly  consisted  of  a  girl" 

"Yes?" 


228  GARRYOWEN 

Mr.  Giveen  tilted  his  hat  and  scratched  his  head. 
He  did  not  shine  as  a  conversationalist,  and  as  Miss 
Kitchen  watched  him,  something  of  disfavour  for  this 
humourist  with  the  shifty  manner  of  a  self-conscious 
child  stole  into  her  mind. 

"Yes?"  said  Miss  Kitchen. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  Mr.  Giveen. 

"  You  were  saying  something  about  a  girl,"  said 
Miss  Kitchen. 

"  Oh,  ay,  it  was  a  girl  down  at  a  place  in  the  coun- 
try, and,  faith,  by  the  same  token,  she  was  old  enough 
to  be  my  aunt,"  said  Mr.  Giveen.  "  It  was  a  bazaar." 

"Yes?" 

"And  she  was  selling  tea  behind  a  counter  and  up  I 
went,  and  *  What  can  I  serve  you  with  ?  '  says  she.  '  A 
cup  of  tea,'  says  I,  '  and  a  bun.' " 

"How  funny!    What  did  she  reply ?" 

"  Faith,  I  forget,  but  the  next  she  says  to  me,  *  One 
and  sixpence,'  she  says." 

"Yes?" 

"  One  and  sixpence ! "  suddenly  burst  out  Mr.  Giveen. 
"  Why,  you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather.  And  I  put  me  hand  into  me  pocket,  and 
*  Here's  sixpence  for  you,'  says  I,  6  and  that's  tuppence 
too  much;  but  you  can  keep  the  change.'  With  that 
she  called  an  old  gentleman  up  with  a  red  face,  and 
then  Mr.  Smith  came  and  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  out 
we  went." 

"And  the  sixpence?" 

"  Faith,  I've  got  it  still  in  me  pocket." 

"  How  awfully  amusing !     But  look,  Mr.  Smith  has 


GARRYOWEN 

got  us  a  cab.  Thanks,  no,  I  never  take  gentlemen's 
arms ;  it  is  quite  unnecessary." 

They  took  their  seats  in  the  taxi,  Miss  Kitchen  and 
Mr.  Dashwood  in  the  back  seat,  Mr.  Giveen  sitting  op- 
posite to  Miss  Kitchen. 

"  The  Albany,  Piccadilly  end,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood 
to  the  driver,  and  they  started. 

Before  they  had  well  cleared  the  precincts  of  the 
station  Miss  Kitchen  was  alive  to  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Giveen  was  "  making  eyes  at  her  " — ogling  her.  Mr. 
Dashwood  noted  the  same  fact,  and  with  his  elbow 
touched  his  companion's  arm  as  if  to  implore  her  pa- 
tience. To  have  stopped  the  taxicab  and  kicked  Mr. 
Giveen  out  of  it  would  have  been  apples  of  gold  in 
pictures  of  silver  to  Mr.  Dashwood,  but  he  controlled 
himself,  contemplating  French's  possible  salvation  as 
a  Buddhist  controls  himself  by  contemplating  Nirvana. 

At  the  Piccadilly  end  of  the  Albany  the  taxicab 
drew  up,  and  Miss  Kitchen,  who  was  on  the  kerb  side, 
alighted  hurriedly.  She  stood  on  the  pavement  wait- 
ing, while  Mr.  Dashwood  paid  the  driver  off,  and  then 
the  three  entered  the  Albany.  Mr.  Dashwood's  rooms 
were  situated  half-way  up,  on  the  right-hand  side,  and 
at  the  entrance  of  them  he  stopped  and  turned  to  Mr. 
Giveen. 

"  Will  you  come  in  and  wait  for  me  a  few  minutes  ? 
Miss  Kitchen  will  excuse  me  if  I  run  in  for  a  moment 
with  you  to  show  you  the  way.  You  can  sit  and  wait 
for  me  a  few  minutes  while  I  see  Miss  Kitchen  into  a 
cab.  Come,  this  is  the  way." 

Mr.  Giveen  held  out  his  hand  to  the  girl.     "It's 


230  GARRYOWEN 

sorry  I  am  to  have  seen  so  little  of  you,"  said  Mr. 
Giveen,  "but,  sure,  if  we  have  any  luck,  we  may  meet 
again." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  replied  Miss  Kitchen,  releas- 
ing her  hand.  "  Good  evening." 

She  waited. 

In  less  than  a  minute  and  a  half  Mr.  Dashwood  re- 
appeared. 

"  Bobby,"  said  Miss  Kitchen,  as  she  turned  with 
him  to  the  Vigo  Street  entrance,  "  I  have  forgiven  you 
many  things,  but  that  Thing  is  too  much  to  be  for- 
given without  a  very  complete  explanation.  Do  you 
know  that  it  put  its  toe  on  my  foot  in  the  cab  ?  " 

"  Beast !  "  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  Can  you  imagine 
my  fix,  tied  to  it?  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  burst. 
Now,  look  here.  Here's  my  situation  in  a  nutshell. 
I  know  a  man  called  French,  the  nicest  fellow  in  the 
world.  He's  almost  broken;  but  he  has  one  thing 
left — a  racehorse.  The  horse  is  almost  sure  to  win 
the  City  and  Suburban,  and  if  he  does  French  will 
make  a  fortune.  Well,  French  is  training  the  horse 
down  at  Crowsnest,  in  Sussex.  French  owes  a  money- 
lender named  Lewis  a  lot  of  money,  and  Lewis  doesn't 
know  where  French  is.  If  he  knew  it,  he  would  send 
down  a  man  to-morrow  and  collar  the  horse.  Do  you 
see?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Giveen  is  French's  cousin." 

"Poor  Mr.   French!" 

"  And  he  has  a  mortal  hatred  to  French.  He  has 
been  hunting  for  his  address  for  the  last  long  time, 


GARRYOWEN  231 

and  he  has  found  it.  He  went  down  to  Crowsnest  to- 
day to  make  sure.  He  strayed  into  a  bazaar  that  was 
going  on  there,  and  I  met  him.  He  was  acting  like  a 
cad,  refusing  to  pay  for  a  cup  of  tea.  Miss  Grimshaw, 
French's  governess,  pointed  him  out  to  me,  and  told 
me  who  he  was,  and  I  froze  on  to  him.  I  said  my  name 
was  Smith,  and  I  told  him  I  hated  French,  and  he 
unbosomed  himself  to  me.  Well,  here's  the  position 
now.  To-morrow  morning  he's  going  down  to  Lewis, 
the  moneylender,  and  is  going  to  put  Lewis  on  to 
French.  Now,  you  see  the  position  I'm  in.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  try  to  think  of  what's  to  be  done." 

"When  is  the  race?"  asked  Miss  Kitchen. 

"On  the  15th." 

"  Well,  unless  you  murder  him  I  don't  see  that  any- 
thing is  to  be  done.  If  the  race  were  to-morrow  or 
next  day,  you  might  chloroform  him,  or  lock  him  up 
in  your  rooms,  but  you  can't  lock  a  man  up  for  ten 
days." 

"He  ought  to  be  locked  up  for  life,"  said  Bobby. 
"  Idiot !  If  I  could  only  make  the  beast  tipsy,  I  might 
do  something  with  him,  but  he  drinks  nothing — only 
stone  gingerbeer." 

"  Ah ! "   suddenly   said   Miss   Hitchen,   pausing. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"An   idea." 

"Yes?" 

"  Why  not  sequestrate  him  ?  " 

"What's   that?" 

"  Hide  him  away." 

"Where  on   earth  could  I  hide  him?" 


233  GARRYOWEN 

"  Good  gracious,  Bobby,  haven't  you  any  imagina- 
tion?" 

"Not  much,"  replied  the  unfortunate  Bobby.  "I 
was  never  any  good  at  working  out  things,  and  now 
I'm  so  addled  I  can't  think." 

"  Well,  now,  listen  to  me.  I  don't  want  to  be  ac- 
cessory before  the  act  in  this  business,  and  I  only 
make  suggestions.  Tell  me,  do  you  not  sometimes  go 
duck-shooting?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Where  do  you  go?" 

"  Essex." 

"  Where  in  Essex  (I  know,  because  you  have  sev- 
eral times  told  me,  but  I  want  you  to  fully  answer 
my  question) — where  in  Essex  do  you  go  duck  shoot- 
ing?" 

"  Why,  you  know  very  well  it's  Flatmarsh,  down 
near  Canvey  Island." 

"Where  do  you  stay  there?" 

"  Uncle  James'  hole  of  a  cottage." 

"  Is  Uncle  James'  hole  of  a  cottage  occupied  now?  " 

"  No." 

"  No  one  lives   near   it  ?  " 

"  Not  within  six  miles." 

"Good.      Can   you   drive  a   motor-car?" 

"Should  think  so!" 

"And  hire  one?" 

"Yes;  I've  got  tick  at  Simpson's.  Oh,  by  Jove! 
I  see  what  you  mean ! " 

"  I'm  glad  you  do ;  otherwise  I  would  have  fancied 
that  your  mental  sight  was  defective." 


GARRYOWEN  233 

"  I  see  what  you  mean.  But,  look  here,  if  I  got 
him  down  there,  how  would  I  feed  the  beast  and  keep 
him  hid?" 

"  Biscuits  and  tinned  meat  can  be  bought,  and 
enough  for  a  fortnight  wouldn't  cost  more  than,  say, 
three  or  four  pounds." 

"  And  there's  a  well  there,  so  we'd  have  plenty  of 
water,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  I  say,  you  are  a  rip- 
per. I'd  never  have  thought  of  all  that." 

"  Would  Simpson,  or  whoever  he  is,  let  you  hire 
a  car  for  a  fortnight?  " 

"  'Course  he  would.  I  always  pay  up  my  bills, 
though  he  has  to  wait  sometimes;  but  I  paid  him  my 
last  bill  a  month  ago." 

"Where  is  his  place?" 

"Just  close  here,  in  Regent-street." 

"  Now,  another  thing — can  you  imagine  what  it 
would  be  to  live  for  nearly  a  fortnight  alone  in  a 
cottage  with  a  person  like  that,  acting  as  his  gaoler?" 

"Oh,  heavens!"  said  Bobby.  "You  think  every- 
thing! No,  I  can't,  but  I'll  do  it  to  save  French." 

"Bobby,"  said  Miss   Kitchen. 

"Yes?" 

"Do  you  know  what  I  have  discovered?" 

"  No." 

"That  I'm  a  fool." 

"You  a  fool?" 

"  Yes.  I  thought  you  were  only  an  irresponsible 
boy,  but  I  find  you're  a  man." 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  said  Bobby.  "Anyhow,  I'll  try 
to  be." 


234.  GARRYOWEN 

"  You  needn't  thank  me.  Now,  have  you  any 
money?  " 

"About  five  pounds." 

"Well,  I'll  lend  you  another  five  pounds.  No,  I 
won't,  but  I'll  buy  the  provisions  myself.  If  I  left 
that  to  you,  you'd  forget  the  essentials.  Are  there 
plates  and  things  at  the  cottage?" 

"  Lots." 

"  Well,  now,  like  a  good  boy,  go  at  once  to  Simp- 
son's, and  order  the  car,  and  get  back  before  that 
animal  takes  it  into  his  head  to  escape." 

"  Do  you  mean  I  ought  to  take  him  to-night  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  mean  it." 

"  Will   I  see  you  again  this  evening?  " 

"  No,  but  you  can  write  and  tell  me  the  result. 
Same  address.  The  provisions  for  your  excursion  will 
be  sent  to  the  Albany  by  special  messenger  within  the 
hour.  And,  oh,  Bobby!" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  be  artful.  Say  you  are  taking  him  out  to 
dinner  at  a  country  house.  Once  he's  in  the  car " 

"Once  he's  in  the  car,"  said  Bobby,  "he'll  stick 
in  it,  or  I'll  smash  him  up.  Oh,  leave  him  to  me.  But 
I  can  never  thank  you  enough.  What  makes  you  so 
awfully  clever." 

"  He  squeezed  my  foot,"  said  Miss  Kitchen. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MR.  GIVEEN,  left  alone  in  Mr.  Dashwood's  chambers, 
took  a  comfortable  seat  in  an  arm-chair  and  gazed 
around  him. 

He  felt  that  he  had  fallen  on  his  feet.  He  had  ex- 
tracted two  bottles  of  ginger-beer,  some  biscuits,  and  a 
drive  in  a  taxicab  from  his  new-found  friend.  He  was 
going  to  extract  a  dinner.  He  was  about  to  have  his 
revenge  on  French.  All  these  things  combined  to  cast 
him  into  a  pleasant  and  amused  state  of  mind,  and  he 
looked  with  satisfaction  at  all  the  evidences  of  well- 
being  around  him. 

Then  he  got  up  and  began  a  circuit  of  the  room, 
looking  at  the  prints  on  the  wall,  examining  his  own 
face  in  the  looking-glass,  touching  the  boxing-gloves 
and  foils.  Then  he  examined  the  writing-table.  For- 
tunately there  were  no  letters  with  Mr.  Dashwood's 
name  on  them,  and  when  he  had  turned  over  the  books 
and  taken  another  peep  at  himself  in  the  glass  he  re- 
sumed his  seat,  and  presently  fell  into  a  doze  which 
deepened  into  slumber. 

He  had  slept  like  this  for  some  three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  when  he  was  awakened  by  the  entry  of  his  new 
friend. 

"  Well,"  said  Bobby  in  a  cheerful  voice.  "  How  are 
you  getting  along?  Been  asleep,  hey?  Now,  look 
here,  I  want  you  to  come  out  to  dinner  with  me." 

"  Right  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Giveen,  rubbing  his  eyes. 
"  I'm  with  you — hay  yow ! — I'm  half  moidhered  with 

235 


236  GARRYOWEN 

all  me  travelling.  And  what's  become  of  Miss  What's- 
her-name?  " 

"  She — oh,  we're  going  to  meet  her  at  dinner.  She's 
gone  on  in  her  motor-car." 

"  So  she  keeps  a  motor-car,  does  she?  "  said  Mr. 
Giveen,  rising  and  pulling  down  his  waistcoat. 

"Rather!  She  keeps  two.  Why,  she  has  half  a 
million  of  money  of  her  own.  And,  look  here,"  said  the 
artful  Bobby,  "  I'm  only  taking  you  to  dinner  with 
her  on  one  condition." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"  Well,  I'm  rather  sweet  on  her  myself,  do  you 
see?  " 

"  Oh,  faith,  you  may  trust  me,"  said  Mr.  Giveen, 
in  high  good  spirits.  "  I'm  not  a  marrying  man,  or 
I'd  have  been  snapped  up  years  ago,  musha !  But 
oughtn't  I  to  go  back  to  me  hotel  for  a  black  coat?  " 

"  Oh,  you  won't  want  any  black  coats  where  we're 
going  to,"  said  Bobby  with  grim  jocularity.  "  They 
are  most  unconventional  people.  But,  maybe,  you'd 
like  to  wash  your  hands.  This  is  my  bedroom." 

He  ushered  his  guest  into  the  bedroom  and  left  him 
there.  When  he  returned  to  the  sitting-room  he 
found  Robert  waiting  for  him  with  the  announcement 
that  some  parcels  had  come. 

"Let's  see  them,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

Four  large  brown-paper  parcels  were  on  the  floor 
of  the  landing;  they  had  just  arrived  from  Thomp- 
son's, the  big  Italian  warehouse  in  Regent  Street. 

"That's  right,"  said  Bobby.  "I'm  taking  them 
down  to  a  place.  And,  see  here,  Robert,  I  may  be  away 


GARRYOWEN  237 

a  few  days.  I've  got  a  car  coming;  it  will  be  at  the 
Vigo  Street  entrance  in  a  few  minutes.  Just  keep 
a  lookout  for  it,  and  let  me  know  when  it  arrives." 

"  Yes,  sir.     Shall  I  pack  you  some  things  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  shove  a  few  things  into  a  bag — enough  for  a 
week — and  stow  the  bag  and  these  parcels  in  the  back 
of  the  car  when  it  comes." 

Twenty  minutes  later,  to  Mr.  Dashwood  and  his 
companion  appeared  Robert,  with  the  announcement 
that  the  car  was  in  readiness. 

Bobby  led  the  way  to  the  Vigo  Street  entrance, 
where,  drawn  up  at  the  kerb,  stood  a  40-h.  p.  Daimler 
car  with  lamps  lit.  Bobby  looked  at  this  formidable 
locomotive  with  an  appreciative  eye,  and  the  chauffeur 
sent  with  it  by  Simpson  getting  down,  he  mounted  and 
took  the  steering  collar.  Giveen,  innocent  of  danger  as 
a  lamb  entering  the  yard  of  the  butcher,  got  in  and 
took  his  seat  beside  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"Right!"  said  Bobby. 

He  backed  into  Cork  Street,  and  then,  turning  again 
into  Vigo  Street,  passed  into  Regent  Street. 

"How  far  is  it,  did  you  say,  to  Miss  Kitchen's?" 
asked  Mr.  Giveen. 

"  I  didn't  say — but  it's  not  far — at  least,  with  this 
car.  Are  you  used  to  motors  ?  " 

"  No,  faith,  I've  never  driven  in  one  before.  And 
are  you  used  to  driving  them?  " 

"Oh,  pretty  well." 

"Do  you  ever  have  accidents?" 

"Accidents!  Rather.  That's  half  the  fun.  The 
last  accident  I  had  the  car  turned  turtle  and  pinned 


238  GARRYOWEN 

the  fellow  that  was  with  us  under  the  engine.  The 
petrol  spilt  on  him,  and  a  spark  set  it  on  fire." 

"  Good  heavens ! "  said  the  horrified  Giveen.  "  Was 
he  burnt?" 

"Was  who  burnt?" 

"  The  chap  with  the  petrol  on  him." 

"  Burnt !  Why,  they  gathered  up  his  ashes  in  a 
bucket.  Didn't  you  read  about  it  in  the  papers?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Giveen.     "  I  didn't." 

They  passed  down  the  Strand.  The  night  was  clear 
and  warm  for  the  time  of  the  year,  a  fortunate  cir- 
cumstance for  Mr.  Giveen,  as  he  had  no  overcoat. 
They  passed  up  Fleet  Stret,  by  St.  Paul's,  and  down 
Bishopsgate  Street. 

"  Is  it  anywhere  near  here?  "  asked  Giveen  as  they 
passed  Whitechapel  Church  and  turned  into  the  old 
coaching  road  to  Ilford. 

"  Is  what  near  here  ?  "   asked  Bobby. 

"  The  place  we're  going  to." 

"  Oh,  it's  about  sixty  or  eighty  miles." 

"  Sixty  or  eighty  miles !  " 

"Yes.  That's  nothing  to  a  car  like  this.  You 
just  see  how  I'm  going  to  make  her  hum.  I  haven't 
had  a  car  like  this  to  drive  since  I  came  out  of  that 
beastly  asylum  place." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  Giveen,  cold  shivers  go- 
ing up  his  back.  "  Did  you  say — did  I  understand 
you  to  say — which  asylum  place  was  it,  did  you  say?  " 

"Don't  bother  me  with  questions,"  replied  Mr. 
Dashwood,  "  for  when  people  talk  to  me  when  I'm  driv- 
ing, I'm  sure  to  do  something  wrong." 


CHAPTER    XXV 

WHEN  Miss  Grimshaw  saw  Bobby  leading  Mr.  Giveen 
to  the  bazaar  entrance  she  returned  to  her  duties  with 
so  distracted  a  mind  that  she  sold  a  seven-and-six- 
penny  teacloth  to  Mrs.  Passover,  the  sanitary  inspec- 
tor's wife,  for  two  and  sixpence,  and  was  only  con- 
scious of  the  fact  when  she  was  reminded  of  it  by  Miss 
Slimon,  the  presiding  genius  of  the  stall. 

On  the  pretext  of  a  headache,  she  released  herself 
at  five  o'clock  and  made  directly  for  The  Martens, 
where  she  found  Mr.  French  smoking  a  cigar  and  read- 
ing a  novel,  and  utterly  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  promised  to  attend  the  bazaar. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  said  French,  putting  his  book  and 
reading  glasses  down  and  staring  at  the  girl,  whose 
face  and  manner  were  eloquent  of  news. 

"  He's  come." 

"Who?" 

"  Mr.  Giveen." 

The  owner  of  Garryowen  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  He's  come,  has  he?  Where  is  he?  He's  come, 
has  he?  " 

"  Stop ! "  she  said,  half  frightened  with  the  ferocity 
of  the  outraged  French.  "  It  mayn't  be  so  bad  as  you 
think.  Mr.  Dashwood  is  with  him,  and  is  going  to  do 
what  he  can.  There's  no  use  in  violence.  Sit  down 
and  listen  to  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 


240  GARRYOWEN 

French  sat  down  in  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
just  arisen.  The  animal  fury  which  the  idea  of 
Giveen  excited  in  his  mind  might  have  given  cause  to 
grave  results  had  the  image  come  within  striking  dis- 
tance; and  little  blame  to  him,  for  here  was  Garry- 
owen  trained  to  a  turn.  Weeks  and  months  of  care 
and  the  genius  of  Moriarty  had  brought  the  colt  to 
that  point  of  perfection  which  leaves  nothing  to  be 
desired  but  the  racing  day.  Only  a  few  days  sepa- 
rated them  from  the  supreme  moment  when,  if  Fate 
were  propitious,  the  black-and-yellow  colours  of  Drum- 
gool  would  be  carried  first  past  the  winning-post.  The 
possibility  of  winning  a  small  fortune  was  almost  be- 
coming a  certainty,  and  now,  to  thwart  him  of  his 
desire  and  cripple  him  for  life,  here  came  Dick  Giveen. 

"  But  what  took  him  into  the  bazaar?  "  asked  he, 
when  the  girl  had  finished  her  story. 

"Providence,  I  believe,"  replied  Miss  Grimshaw. 
"  Just  fancy,  if  he  hadn't  come  in !  He  has  come 
down  here  evidently  to  make  sure  that  you  are  here. 
If  he  hadn't  wandered  into  the  bazaar,  he  might  have 
found  out  what  he  wanted  and  gone  back  to  London 
without  our  knowing,  and  then  the  next  thing  would 
have  been  a  man  in  possession." 

French  rose  up  and  paced  the  floor  several  times 
without  speaking,  then  he  broke  out: 

"  I  don't  see  what  Dashwood  is  to  do  with  him. 
Unless  he  murders  him,  he'll  never  stop  him  from  going 
to  Lewis  and  blowing  the  gaff.  What's  the  good  of 
following  him  ?  Might  as  well  leave  him  alone.  Better 
to  have  it  over  at  once  and  done  with.  Well,  let  them 


GARRYOWEN  241 

do  their  worst,  but  they'll  never  get  the  horse,  for  as 
sure  as  Lewis  takes  possession  I'll  shoot  him." 

"Shoot  Mr.  Lewis?" 

"  No,  the  horse." 

He  strode  out  of  the  room,  and  by  the  back  en- 
trance to  the  bungalow  found  the  stableyard. 

Moriarty  was  in  the  yard,  completing  a  trap  of  his 
own  inventionj  a  thing  simple  as  sin,  fatal  as  death, 
and  artful  as  the  mind  of  its  maker.  Miss  Grimshaw 
had  spoken  strongly  to  Mrs.  Driscoll  about  the  poach- 
ing. Catching  rabbits  and  such  things  might  be  ex- 
cusable, said  Miss  Grimshaw,  but  poaching  sheep  and 
eggs  was  indefensible.  It  was  robbery,  in  fact,  and 
should  it  come  to  her  ears  again  she  would  inform  Mr. 
French.  Stoutly  denying  all  knowledge  of  the  fact, 
Mrs.  Driscoll,  all  the  same,  listened  to  the  words  of  the 
governess  and  conveyed  them  to  Moriarty. 

"  Sheep  ? "  said  Moriarty,  with  a  wink  at  his  in- 
former. "  What  sheep  does  she  mane?  " 

"  Faith,  I  dunno,  but  she  says  she  saw  you  and 
Andy  draggin'  a  sheep  into  the  loose-box  be  the  wan 
The  Cat's  in." 

"  Oh,  that  ould  bell-wether?  Sure,  it  was  to  keep 
him  from  the  cowld  we  put  him  there.  And  was  it  our 
fault  if  he  committed  suicide  and  killed  himself 
and  skinned  himself  and  then  hung  himself  up  in 
quarthers?  " 

All  the  same,  from  that  day  he  paid  no  more  at- 
tention to  the  comfort  of  the  sheep  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, confining  himself  to  smaller  game. 

"Moriarty,"   said   Mr.   French,  "Mr.   Giveen   has 


242  GARRYOWEN 

found  out  where  we  are.  He's  been  down  here  to-day 
and  it's  all  up  with  us." 

"  Faith,  sorr,"  said  Moriarty,  "  and  I'm  not  sur- 
prised. The  only  wonder  to  me  is  he  didn't  find  us 
out  before." 

"Well,  he's  found  us  out  now,  anyhow,  and  be 
hanged  to  him!  There's  only  one  thing.  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  has  got  hold  of  him,  and  is  sticking  to  him.  Not 
that  I  expect  he'll  do  much  good." 

Moriarty,  who  had  put  his  trap  down  on  the  win- 
dow-ledge of  the  kitchen,  pursed  his  lips  and  stood  with 
one  hand  caressing  his  foxy  chin. 

"  And  where  has  Mr.  Dashwood  got  him,  sorr?  " 
asked  he  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Be  any  chance,  sorr,  d'you  think  he's  left  the  place 
yet.  For  if  he  hasn't,  and  we  could  speak  him  fair, 
and  get  him  up  here " 

"Yes?" 

"  Well,  sorr,  there's  a  loose-box  beside  the  wan  The 
Cat's  in." 

"  You  mean  we  might  lock  him  up  there?  " 

"Yes,  sorr." 

"  He'd  never  come,  and  if  he  did,  he'd  shout  the 
place  down." 

"  Faith,  he'd  be  silent  enough,  sorr,  wid  a  rope  gag 
in  him." 

"We  couldn't  keep  him  ten  days,  and  he'd  have  a 
tearing  action  against  us — not  that  I'd  care  about 
that.  See  here,  Moriarty." 

"Yes,  sorr." 


GARRYOWEN  243 

"  Down  with  you  to  the  village  and  station,  and  if 
by  any  chance  you  see  him  with  Mr.  Dashwood — well, 
b'gad,  I'll  do  it.  Get  him  up  here;  tell  him  I  want 
to  see  him.  We  may  as  well  try." 

"  Yes,  sorr." 

Moriarty  went  into  the  stables  and  slipped  on  his 
jacket.  An  hour  later  he  returned  from  the  village 
with  the  news  that  Mr.  Dashwood  and  the  strange  gen- 
tleman had  departed  for  London  by  the  five  o'clock 
train. 

Early  next  morning,  with  the  letters,  arrived  the 
telegram  that  Mr.  Dashwood  had  despatched  the  night 
before. 

"  Giveen  safe." 

Mr.  French,  having  read  it,  put  on  his  dressing- 
gown,  and,  crossing  over  to  the  door  of  Miss  Grim- 
shaw's  room,  knocked  and  pushed  the  envelope  under 
the  door. 

"  Read  that,"  shouted  Mr.  French. 

"  Good ! "  came  the  girl's  voice  when  she  had  read 
it.  "  I  knew  he'd  do  something.  Oh,  what  a  relief! " 

At  breakfast,  with  the  open  telegram  on  the  table, 
they  discussed  it. 

"  It  was  handed  in  at  Regent  Street  last  night  at 
eight  o'clock,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw.  "What,  I  won- 
der, can  he  have  done  to  him,  or  how  can  he  have  got 
round  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  he's  done  to  him,"  said  her 
companion,  "but  I  know  one  thing,  he'll  never  get 
round  him,  and  if  he  thinks  he's  talked  him  over  he'll 
find  he's  made  a  mistake." 


244  GARRYOWEN 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  "  whatever  has  happened  has 
happened.  We  have  done  our  best,  and  if  we  are 
beaten,  it  won't  be  our  faults.  And  there  is  some  sat- 
isfaction in  that." 

The  day  passed,  bringing  no  news  from  Mr.  Dash- 
wood.  The  next  day  also  passed  without  news;  but 
by  the  early  post  of  the  third  day  arrived  a  letter; 

The  envelope  was  shabby  and  dirty,  and  the  address 
was  written  in  pencil.  Mr.  French  tore  the  thing  open, 
and  read: 

"  Dear  French, — I've  bottled  him.  I'm  scribbling 
this  with  pencil  as  I  have  got  no  ink,  and  I  don't  know 
how  I  will  post  it.  Anyhow,  I'm  writing  it  on  the 
chance  of  finding  some  means  of  doing  so.  I  got 
Giveen  up  to  my  rooms  in  town,  and  when  I  had  him 
there  I  didn't  in  the  least  know  what  to  do  with  him. 
The  beast  hates  you.  I  got  it  all  out  of  him  by  pre- 
tending you  were  an  enemy  of  mine. 

"  He  told  me  straight  out  that  he  was  going  to  set 
Lewis  on  you,  and,  upon  my  soul,  there  were  moments 
on  the  journey  up  to  town  when  I  could  have  flung 
him  out  of  the  railway  carriage.  Anyhow,  when  I  got 
him  to  my  rooms,  a  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  a  friend 
of  mine  whom  I  consulted.  I  hired  a  motor-car, 
bought  some  provisions,  got  Giveen  into  the  car,  and 
motored  him  down  here  to  a  cottage  which  belongs 
to  an  uncle  of  mine,  and  which  he  used  for  duck- 
shooting. 

"  It's  the  most  God-forsaken  place  in  the  world,  on 
the  Essex  coast ;  not  a  soul  within  miles,  only  sea-gulls. 
Of  course,  Giveen  bucked  coming  down,  but  only  mildly. 


GARRYOWEN  245 

A  happy  thought  occurred  to  me,  and  I  pretended  to 
be  slightly  balmy.  I  told  him  I  was  the  King  of  Siam 
— that  quieted  him.  He's  dead  certain  he's  in  the  grip 
of  a  lunatic,  and  asks  no  questions.  I  make  him  do 
the  cooking,  such  as  it  is,  and  the  washing  up. 

"  I  never  let  him  out  of  my  sight  for  a  moment,  and 
I  sleep  at  night  with  my  bed  drawn  across  the  door. 
The  whole  thing  is  like  what  you'd  read  of  in  a  book ; 
but  it's  too  awful  for  words.  He  can  talk  about  noth- 
ing, and  we  are  living  on  tinned  meat  and  biscuits,  and 
now  my  tobacco  is  giving  out.  I'd  ask  you  to  send 
me  some,  only  I  daren't,  for  if  the  postman  came  here, 
Giveen  would  be  sure  to  make  a  bid  for  freedom. 

"  Be  sure  I  will  stick  to  him,  like  grim  death,  and 
give  my  kind  regards  to  all  at  The  Martens." 

French  read  this  important  despatch  to  Miss  Grim- 
shaw  as  they  sat  at  breakfast,  and  the  girl  listened  with 
sparkling  eyes. 

"  I  always  hated  motor-cars,"  said  she,  when  he  had 
finished.  "  But  I'll  never  hear  a  word  against  them 
again.  Wasn't  it  clever  of  him?  And  the  cleverest 
thing  in  the  whole  business  is  the  King  of  Siam  part, 
for  if  there's  any  bother  afterwards,  he  can  put  the 
whole  affair  down  to  a  practical  joke.  There  are  only 
five  days  now  to  the  13th.  You  are  moving  the  horse 
to  Major  Lawson's  stables  at  Epsom  on  the  13th, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

"I  am,"  said  French.  "I  had  a  letter  from  him 
only  yesterday,  asking  after  the  colt.  By  George,  but 
I  believe  we'll  pull  the  thing  through,  after  all ! " 

He  rose  from  the  table  in  high  excitement,  went  to 


246  GARRYOWEN 

the  window,  and  stood,  jingling  the  keys  in  his  pocket 
and  gazing  at  the  view.  It  seemed  to  him  that  at  last 
fortune  was  beginning  to  make  a  way  for  him.  A  few 
days  only  separated  him  from  his  goal.  If  Bobby 
Dashwood  could  only  keep  Giveen  "bottled"  till  the 
13th,  or  even  the  12th,  all  would  be  well.  Could  he 
do  this?  Time  alone  could  answer  that  question. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

IT  will  be  remembered  that  the  night  of  the  5th  of 
April  was  the  date  of  the  kidnapping  of  Mr.  Giveen. 
Early  in  the  morning  of  the  6th  Mr.  Dashwood  awoke 
from  his  slumbers  with  a  start,  looked  around  him,  and 
remembered. 

The  cottage  contained  only  two  bedrooms  and  a 
living-room.  He  had  taken  a  bed  the  night  before 
from  one  of  the  bedrooms  and  dragged  it  in  front  of  the 
living-room  door,  which  was  also  the  hall  door.  Here 
he  had  slept,  literally  making  a  barrier  of  his  body  to 
the  escape  of  Giveen. 

His  first  thought  was  of  his  prisoner,  but  he  was  re- 
assured as  to  his  safety  by  loud  snores  coming  from 
the  bedroom  where  he  had  deposited  him  the  night  be- 
fore. The  morning  reflections  of  Mr.  Dashwood,  as 
he  lay  watching  the  mournful  dawn  breaking  through 
the  diamond-paned  window,  were  not  of  the  most  cheer- 
ful description. 

In  seizing  the  body  of  Mr.  Giveen  and  forcibly  de- 
porting it  from  London  to  Essex,  he  had  broken  the 
law.  The  fact  that  Giveen  was  an  enemy  of  French 
and  about  to  do  him  a  cruel  injury  would,  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  felt,  weigh  very  little  with  a  jury  should  the 
said  Giveen  take  an  action  against  him  for  wrongful 
imprisonment;  and  he  felt  distinctly  that  Giveen, 

847 


248  GARRYOWEN 

despite  all  his  softness,  was  just  the  man  to  take  such 
a  course. 

The  great  craft  of  Giveen  was  fully  demonstrated 
by  the  way  in  which  he  had  acted  on  the  night  before. 
Believing  himself  in  the  power  of  a  lunatic,  he  had 
adapted  himself  to  the  situation,  feigning  unconcern 
as  a  beetle  feigns  death.  Besides  gloomy  forebodings 
as  to  the  ultimate  issue  of  his  illegal  proceedings,  Mr. 
Dashwood  had  to  face  the  immediate  prospect  of 
Giveen's  close  companionship  for  ten  days  or  so.  But, 
as  a  set-off  to  these  undesirabilities,  he  had  the  pleas- 
ant vision  of  French  liberated  from  his  difficulties, 
Garryowen  passing  the  winning-post  with  a  beaten 
favourite  behind  him,  and  last,  but  not  least,  Violet 
Grimshaw's  face  when  he  told  her  all. 

Enlivened  by  the  thought  of  this,  he  sprang  out  of 
bed,  pulled  the  bed  away  from  the  door,  and  opened 
it.  The  bleak  morning  had  broken  fully  now  upon  the 
marshlands  and  the  sea.  A  cold  wind  was  blowing 
from  the  southeast,  bending  the  wire  grass  and  bring- 
ing with  it  the  chilly  sound  of  small  waves  breaking 
on  the  shore.  Electric  white  gulls  were  circling  and 
crying  by  the  distant  sea-edge,  and  the  marble-grey 
clouds  were  running  rapidly  overhead. 

He  shut  the  door  on  this  dismal  prospect,  and 
turned  his  attention  to  the  fireplace. 

He  remembered  that  the  last  time  he  was  here  there 
was  some  coal  and  firewood  in  the  little  outhouse  at 
the  corner  adjoining  the  shed  under  whose  shelter  he 
had  placed  the  car.  He  went  out  now,  and,  opening 
the  outhouse  door,  found  several  hundred-weight  of 


GARRYOWEN  249 

coal  stacked  in  a  corner  of  the  shed  and  a  dozen  or  so 
bundles  of  firewood  by  the  coal.  An  old  basket  stood 
by  the  coal,  and  filling  this  with  fuel  and  sticks,  he 
returned  to  the  cottage. 

Giveen  was  still  snoring,  and  Mr.  Dashwood,  who 
had  no  desire  for  his  company,  left  him  to  his  slumbers 
while  he  proceeded  to  the  business  of  lighting  the  fire. 
Then  he  undid  the  package  of  provisions,  and  spread 
the  contents  on  the  dresser.  Tinned  meat  and  bis- 
cuits formed  the  store — nothing  else,  unless  we  include 
two  small  jars  of  olives,  and  as  Mr.  Dashwood  looked 
at  the  row  of  biscuit  bags  and  tins,  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that,  however  learned  in  eugenics  and  so- 
ciology, Miss  Kitchen  was  somehow  deficient  in  her 
knowledge  of  household  management. 

When  he  had  untinned  a  tongue,  put  some  biscuits 
on  a  plate,  and  boiled  some  water  which,  if  you  drink 
it  hot  enough  and  with  your  eyes  shut  you  cannot 
distinguish  from  tea,  he  called  his  companion,  and  they 
sat  down  to  their  cheerless  meal,  Giveen  amiable  and 
even  cheerful,  seeming  to  find  nothing  extraordinary 
in  his  position,  but  fencing  with  the  subject  whenever 
Bobby  brought  the  conversation  in  the  direction  of 
Siam,  and — Mr.  Dashwood  noted — with  his  eye  ever 
wandering  to  the  door. 

After  breakfast  Mr.  Dashwood  wrote  the  letter  we 
have  seen  to  Mr.  French,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  with 
a  view  to  finding  some  means  of  sending  it  later. 
Then  he  took  his  charge  out  for  a  walk  on  the  salt 
marshes.  After  dinner,  with  an  old  pack  of  cards, 
which  he  discovered  in  the  dresser  drawer,  they  played 


250  GARRYOWEN 

i 

beggar-my-neighbour,  and  dusk  closed  on  that  ter- 
rible day  and  found  them  sitting  without  candles  or 
lights  of  any  sort  by  the  embers  of  the  fire,  Mr.  Giveen 
still  amiable  and  even  mildly  cheerful. 

Had  he  been  obstreperous  or  quarrelsome,  had  he 
even  asked  questions  as  to  Bobby's  intentions,  had  he 
been  irritable,  the  situation  would  have  been  more 
bearable;  but  he  sat  uncannily  composed  and  amiable, 
and  giving  no  hint  of  dissatisfaction  with  his  position 
and  no  sign  of  revolt  or  evasion,  with  the  exception 
of  the  tell-tale  wandering  of  his  eye  every  now  and 
then  towards  the  door. 

Bobby's  watch  had  run  down,  and  Mr.  Giveen  had 
no  timepiece,  time  being  to  him  of  no  account,  and,  at 
an  indeterminable  hour,  Mr.  Dashwood,  yawning, 
dragged  his  bed  to  the  door  by  the  light  of  the 
flickering  fire  and  his  prisoner  retired  to  the  bedroom, 
and,  judging  by  the  sound  of  snoring  that  soon  filled 
the  cottage,  to  sleep. 

It  was  long  past  midnight,  when  Mr.  Dashwood  was 
aroused  from  sleep  by  cries  from  the  night  outside. 
The  clouds  had  broken  and  a  full  moon  was  casting 
her  light  through  the  diamond  panes  of  the  window  as, 
sitting  up  in  bed,  he  strained  his  ears  to  listen. 

It  was  Giveen's  voice,  and  Giveen  was  shouting  for 
help.  He  dragged  the  bed  from  the  door,  opened  the 
door,  and,  without  waiting  to  dress,  rushed  out  into 
the  night. 

The  cries  were  coming  from  the  back  of  the  cot- 
tage. Running  round,  he  came  upon  the  object  of 
distress  and  the  cause. 


GARRYOWEN  251 

The  front  end  of  Mr.  Giveen  was  protruding  from 
the  tiny  window  of  the  bedroom.  This  window  had 
possessed  a  bar  across  it,  which  bar  the  prisoner,  by 
a  miracle  of  patience  and  dexterity,  had  removed.  He 
had  got  his  head  and  one  arm  and  shoulder  through, 
and  there  he  was  stuck. 

"  Help !  "  cried  Mr.  Giveen.     "  I'm  stuck ! " 

"Try  back!"  cried  Bobby.  "Don't  push  for- 
ward, or  you'll  be  stuck  worse.  What  made  you  try 
to  get  out  of  that  window,  you  sainted  fool?  It's  not 
big  enough  for  a  child.  Push  back!" 

"  Back,  is  it  ?  "  cried  the  perspiring  Giveen.  '*  Back 
or  front  is  all  the  same.  I  tell  you  I'm  stuck  for  good. 
Help!  Murder!  Thieves!" 

"  Come  forward,  then,"  cried  Bobby,  seizing  the 
free  arm,  "  and  shut  that  row.  Now,  then,  all  to- 
gether! Push  while  I  pull." 

"  Let  up,  or  you'll  have  the  arm  off  me ! "  cried  the 
afflicted  one.  "  Holy  Mary !  but  you're  murdering  me ! 
Go  round  to  the  room  and  pull  at  me  legs  if  you  want 
to  pull.  Maybe  you'll  get  me  in,  for,  be  the  powers, 
you  may  pull  till  you're  black,  but  you'll  never  get  me 
out." 

"  Right,"  said  Bobby. 

He  ran  round,  entered  the  bedroom,  which  was  in 
darkness,  owing  to  the  occlusion  of  the  window,  groped 
for  the  afflicted  one's  legs,  found  them,  and  pulled. 
Loud  bellows  from  the  night  outside  was  the  only  re- 
sult. First  he  pulled  face  fronting  the  window,  and 
with  one  foot  against  the  wall  for  purchase ;  then  with 


252  GARRYOWEN 

his  back  to  Giveen  and  with  one  leg  under  each  arm, 
pulling  like  a  horse  in  the  shafts,  he  pulled. 

"  Good  heavens ! "  said  Mr.  Dashwood  at  last,  tak- 
ing his  seat  on  the  bed  and  wiping  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow,  "  I  don't  know  what  we're  to  do  with  the 
bounder,  unless  we  pull  the  cottage  down." 


CHAPTER    XXVH 

ON  the  morning  of  the  10th  of  April  Mr.  French  awoke 
from  a  night  of  pleasant  dreams  to  find  the  sun  shining 
broad  and  strong  through  the  window  of  his  bedroom. 

He  had  dreamt  of  the  great  race;  he  had  seen  in  a 
glorified  vision  the  field  sweeping  round  Tattenham 
Corner,  Garryowen  a  length  ahead  of  the  favourite; 
he  had  heard  the  roar  of  the  crowd,  and  had  been  con- 
gratulated by  all  sorts  of  dream-people,  and  the  ex- 
hilaration of  the  vision  clung  to  him  as  he  dressed  and 
accompanied  him  as  he  breakfasted. 

Not  a  word  had  come  from  Mr.  Dashwood  since  the 
letter  announcing  the  "  bottling "  of  Giveen,  but  no 
news  in  this  case  was  good  news. 

Only  three  days  now  lay  between  him  and  the  event- 
ful 13th,  and  if  Dashwood  could  only  keep  his  prisoner 
safe  for  three  days  more,  all  would  be  well.  The 
chance  that  Garryowen  might  not  win  the  race  never 
even  occurred  to  French.  He  was  certain ;  and  one  of 
the  reasons  of  his  certainty  was  the  opposition  that 
Fate  had  put  in  his  way.  He  felt  dimly  that  Fate 
would  never  have  taken  all  this  trouble  to  thwart  him, 
would  never  have  put  so  many  obstacles  in  his  path,  if 
she  were  not  sure  that  when  the  flag  fell  the  victory  of 
Garryowen  would  be  a  certainty. 

After  breakfast  he  went  out  on  the  Downs  to  watch 
the  colt  taking  his  exercise. 

The  length  of  the  City  and  Suburban  course  had 
953 


2541  GARRYOWEN 

been  marked  out  on  the  great  flat  table-land,  and  here 
Garryowen  and  The  Cat,  the  swiftest  thing  save  Garry- 
owen  that  French  had  ever  possessed,  were  now  exer- 
cising, Andy  up  on  Garryowen  and  Buck  Slane  on  The 
Cat.  Moriarty,  a  straw  in  his  mouth,  was  watching 
them. 

"We'll  do  it,  Moriarty,"  said  French,  as  he  took 
his  stand  beside  his  henchman  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
distant  horses  that  were  being  walked  back  towards 
him. 

"  I'm  beginnin'  to  b'lave  we  will,  sorr,"  replied 
Moriarty.  "  We'll  just  hit  the  cruck  in  the  middle 
be  the  15th.  There's  not  a  bit  of  overthrainin'  about 
the  colt.  I've  been  keepin'  him  back  for  the  last  few 
days,  for  a  horse  all  fiddle-strings  is  no  more  use  on 
the  course  than  a  barber's  cat  at  a  concert. 

"  And  did  yiz  ever  hear  of  thim  college  chaps,  sorr, 
that  goes  up  for  their  'xaminations  wid  the  stuff 
stickin'  out  of  their  heads,  and  nothin'  in  their  heads 
but  addlement?  Faith,  Mr.  Casey,  of  Thrinity  Col- 
lege, told  me  of  thim  when  he  was  down  for  the  shootin'. 

"  He  said  he'd  seen  thim  college  boys,  some  of  thim, 
larnin'  up  their  stuff  right  till  they  were  forenint  the 
'xaminers,  wid  their  book  in  their  hands  till  the  last 
minit,  and  thim  sort  of  chaps,  says  he,  always  gets 
stuck,  for  their  'rithmetic  gets  jammed  in  their  Latin, 
and,  when  they  open  their  gobs  to  spake,  their 
g*ography  comes  out  when  it's  Greek  they  ought  to 
be  answerin'.  But  you  take  the  boys  that  aise  off 
before  the  'xamination  day,  says  he,  and  they  git 
through  because  they're  the  wise  ones.  Well,  it's  just 


GARRYOWEN  255 

the  same  wid  a  horse,  sorr!  Addle  his  legs  wid  over- 
thrainin',  and  you  do  for  him." 

"  He's  a  good  starter,  he's  a  good  goer,  and  he's  got 
a  jockey  that  knows  him,"  said  French  as  he  watched 
the  horses  approaching,  "  and  the  jockey's  a  lot." 

"  A  lot,  sorr !  It's  everything,  be  the  powers !  Same 
as  a  wife  to  a  man.  And  what  is  a  wife,  sorr,  to  a 
man,  if  she's  a  decent  wife,  but  a  jockey  that  brings 
him  first  past  the  winnin'-post  if  he's  got  the  go  in 
him?" 

Mr.  French  assented  to  this  sage  pronouncement  of 
Moriarty's,  and  returned  to  the  house  in  high  good 
spirits.  He  had  just  reached  the  verandah,  when  the 
sight  of  something  coming  up  the  path  made  him  catch 
his  breath. 

This  something  was  a  telegraph  boy. 

"French?"  said  the  boy,  presenting  an  envelope. 
Mr.  French  tore  it  open. 

"  Giveen  loose — clean  got  away — motoring  down. — 
Dashwood." 

"  Any  answer,  sir?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  French,  "  there's  no  answer." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  with  the  paper  crushed  in  his 
hand.  He  could  hear  the  boy  whistling  as  he  went 
down  the  hill.  Then  he  passed  into  the  bungalow. 

"  Norah,"  cried  Mr.  French. 

«  Yes,  sir." 

"  Fetch  me  the  whisky  decanter,  and  ask  Miss  Grim- 
shaw  to  come  here." 

He  went  into  the  sitting-room.  '*  Giveen  loose- 
clean  got  away."  The  words  danced  before  him  and 


256  GARRYOWEN 

sang  in  his  ears,  turned  somersaults,  and  stood  on  their 
heads  like  a  troop  of  tormenting  gamins. 

In  the  crisis  of  a  complex  and  fantastic  tragedy  such 
as  that  of  French's,  the  most  galling  thing  is  the  in- 
ability to  seize  the  whole  situaton  and  meet  it  philo- 
sophically. A  bank  smash  which  sweeps  away  one's  for- 
tune is  a  four-square  disaster,  seizable  if  stunning ;  but 
this  business  of  Garryowen's  was  ungraspable,  and  un- 
measureable,  and  unfightable  as  a  nightmare.  The 
horse  was  in  apparent  safety  one  moment,  and  the  next 
in  imminent  danger.  Fortune  was  quite  close  now,  and 
holding  out  her  hand ;  now  she  was  at  a  distance,  and 
her  hand,  fingers  extended,  was  at  her  nose. 

Yesterday  the  dreaded  Giveen  was  safe  in  Ireland; 
to-day  he  was  attending  the  village  bazaar.  Now  Mr. 
Dashwood  had  him  a  safe  prisoner  down  in  the  wilds 
of  Essex,  and  now  he  had  escaped.  The  fight  for  for- 
tune had  been  a  long  one,  vast  obstacles  had  been  over- 
come. Was  it  all  to  end  at  the  last  moment  in 
disaster? 

When  Miss  Grimshaw  entered  the  room  she  found  Mr. 
French  seated  at  the  table,  with  the  open  telegram  be- 
fore him,  and  at  his  side  a  glass  of  whisky  and  water 
and  a  decanter. 

"  Read  that,"  said  he. 

She  took  the  message  and  read  it  with  a  constriction 
at  the  heart. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you  think  of  that?  " 

Miss  Grimshaw,  before  answering,  took  the  whisky 
decanter  from  the  table  and  put  it  on  the  side  table. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,"  said  French. 


GARRYOWEN  257 

"  I'm  too  much  at  the  end  of  my  tether  to  care  very 
much  what  happens.  Faith,  I  wouldn't  take  the  bother 
to  get  drunk." 

"  All  the  same,"  said  the  girl,  "  we  must  meet  this 
with  as  cool  a  head  as  possible.  '  Motoring  'down.' " 
(She  was  reading  the  message.)  "  Who  does  he  mean, 
I  wonder?  Of  course,  he  must  mean  himself,  because  he 
evidently  does  not  know  where  Mr.  Giveen  is,  or  what 
he's  doing.  It  was  handed  in  at  Regent  Street  this 
morning  at  9.15;  received  here  at  10.2.  It  is  now 
nearly  eleven." 

"  Listen !  "  said  French. 

Sounds  came  very  clearly  up  here  from  the  lower 
land,  and  the  sound  which  had  attracted  French's  at- 
tention was  the  throb  of  a  motor-car  approaching  along 
the  station  road. 

Moved  by  an  identical  impulse,  they  approached  the 
window  leading  on  to  the  verandah.  Mr.  French 
opened  it,  and  they  passed  out. 

Miss  Grimshaw  and  Mr.  French  could  see  the  car — 
a  large  touring  car — approaching  slowly;  there  was 
only  one  individual  in  it,  and — "  That's  him ! "  said 
Miss  Grimshaw,  forgetful  of  grammar,  leaving  the  ve- 
randah and  taking  the  down-hill  path  to  the  road. 

French  followed  her,  and  they  reached  the  road  just 
as  the  car  was  coming  to  a  halt.  It  was  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  in  very  truth,  but  a  more  different  edition  of  the 
joyous  and  irresponsible  Bobby  it  would  be  hard  to  im- 
agine. His  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  exposed  fully 
his  face,  grimy,  unwashed,  and  weary.  He  had,  alto- 
gether, the  disreputable  appearance  of  a  person  who 


258  GARRYOWEN 

has  been  out  all  night,  and  as  he  crawled  out  of  the  car, 
his  movements  suggested  old  age  or  rheumatism. 

"  Something  to  eat !  "  said  Bobby  as  he  took  French's 
arm  with  his  left  hand  and  held  out  his  right  to  Miss 
Grimshaw.  "I'm  nearly  done.  Giveen  is  loose,  but 
I'll  tell  you  it  all  when  I  get  up  to  the  house.  Thanks, 
may  I  lean  on  you?  The  car  will  be  all  right  here." 

"  Come  along  up,"  said  French. 

No  word  was  said  till  Mr.  Dashwood  was  seated  in 
the  sitting-room,  with  a  glass  of  whisky  and  soda  in  his 
hand. 

"Oh,  this  is  good!"  said  he.  "I  haven't  had  a 
drink  since  I  don't  know  how  long." 

"  Don't  drink  till  you  have  had  some  food,"  said  the 
girl.  "  I'll  get  something  for  you  at  once.  There's 
a  tin  of  tongue " 

"  Don't !  "  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  Don't  mention 
tinned  meat  or  biscuits  to  me.  I've  lived  on  them.  Oh, 
heavens !  don't  let  me  think  of  it !  " 

"  An  egg?  " 

"  Yes,  an  egg — anything  but  tinned  meat.  It's  al- 
most as  bad  as  Giveen." 

In  five  minutes  the  egg  was  boiled,  and  half  an  hour 
after  Mr.  Dashwood,  young  again,  smoking  a  pipe  of 
French's,  began  his  recital. 

He  told  all  we  know — how  he  had  "  shanghaied  " 
Mr.  Giveen,  how  that  gentleman  had  tried  to  escape, 
and  had  stuck  in  the  window.  "  I  pulled  and  hauled," 
said  Bobby,  "  but  it  was  all  no  use ;  and,  upon  my  Sam  ! 
I  thought  it  would  be  a  business  of  pulling  the  cottage 
down." 


GARRYOWEN  259 

"  How  did  you  get  him  loose  at  last  ?  "  asked  French. 
"  And  why  the  deuce  didn't  you  leave  him  stuck  there 
till  the  race  was  over?  You  could  have  fed  him  from 
the  outside." 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  never  thought  of  that ! "  said  Mr. 
Dashwood.  "  I  felt  I  had  to  get  him  free  somehow,  and 
then  I  thought  of  a  patent  dodge.  I'd  heard  of  a  chap 
lighting  a  fire  of  straw  under  a  horse  that  wouldn't  go, 
and  I  knew  the  only  way  to  free  the  beggar  was  to 
make  him  use  all  his  exertions,  and  even  more;  so  I  got 
some  straw  out  of  the  outhouse  place  and  made  a  big 
wisp  of  it,  and  lit  it.  Made  a  torch,  you  know. 
*  What  are  you  doing?  '  he  said.  *  You  wait  and  see,'  I 
replied,  and  jabbed  it  in  his  face.  You  wouldn't  be- 
lieve it,  but  he  went  in  *  pop  '  like  when  you  push  a 
cork  down  into  a  bottle.  Then  I  ran  round  and  secured 
him. 

"  Well,  I  pointed  out  to  him  next  morning  the  error 
of  his  ways,  and  he  promised  to  make  no  more  attempts 
to  escape.  *  Look  here,'  said  I,  '  I've  been  pretending 
to  you  I  was  cracked.  I'm  not.  I  just  got  you  down 
here  because  I'm  a  friend  of  French,  and  I  don't  want 
you  to  set  Lewis  on  him,  and  here  you'll  stay  till  I 
choose  to  let  you  loose.  It's  as  bad  for  me  as  you — 
worse,  for  you're  a  beastly  slow  companion.  Anyhow, 
here  you  are,  and  here  you'll  stick  till  I  give  you 
leave  to  go.' 

"  At  that  he  began  saying  that  he  had  no  enmity  to 
you  at  all,  and  that  if  I'd  only  let  him  loose  he'd  go 
back  to  Ireland  and  make  no  more  trouble;  but  I  told 
him  straight  out  I  wouldn't  trust  him,  and  there  the 


260  GARRYOWEN 

matter  ended.  I  had  written  a  letter  to  you,  and  I 
had  it  in  my  pocket.  A  half-witted  sort  of  boy  came 
round  the  place,  and  I  gave  him  the  letter  and  six- 
pence to  post  it.  Did  you  get  it?  " 

"  We  did." 

"  I  felt  when  I  gave  him  it  like  old  Noah  letting  the 
dove  out  of  the  Ark,  and  then  we  settled  down  to  our 
tinned  meat  and  biscuits.  Oh,  heavens !  I  don't  want  to 
talk  or  think  of  it.  We  played  beggar-my-neighbour 
with  an  old  pack  of  cards.  Then  my  tobacco  gave  out. 
Giveen  didn't  mind.  He  was  quite  happy  on  the  tinned 
meat,  and  he  doesn't  smoke  or  drink,  and  I  had  to  go 
through  it  all  without  complaining,  and  that  was  the 
worst  of  it." 

"  I  think  it  was  splendid  of  you,"  said  the  girl.  "  Go 
on." 

"  Faith,  and  '  splendid '  is  no  word,"  exclaimed 
French.  "You're  certainly  a  friend  in  a  million.  Go 
on." 

Fortified  by  these  praises,  the  weary  one  continued 
his  narrative. 

"Well,  day  after  day  passed,  till  I  began,  like 
those  chaps  that  get  shipwrecked,  to  lose  count  of  time. 
I  heard  church  bells  ringing  the  day  before  yesterday, 
for  instance,  and  then  I  knew  it  was  Sunday,  some- 
where, for  it  didn't  seem  Sunday  or  any  other  day  in 
that  beastly  cottage.  Time  seemed  to  have  stopped. 
You  see,  there  were  no  books  there,  no  newspapers, 
nothing,  and  my  tobacco  had  given  out;  and  against 
all  that  misery  the  tinned  meat  and  biscuits  began  to 
stand  out  in  such  high  relief  that  mealtime  became  a 


GARRYOWEN  261 

horror.  Oh,  Heaven !  don't  let  me  talk  about  it !  I  want 
to  try  to  forget  it. 

"  Well,  things  went  on  like  that  till  it  came  to  yes- 
terday, and  I  said  to  myself :  '  This  can't  go  on  any 
longer,  for  I'm  beginning  to  hear  voices,  and  the  next 
thing  will  be  I'll  see  things.  Southend  is  only  ten  or 
eleven  miles  away.  It's  a  flat  road,  and  there's  a  car 
outside.  I'll  lock  Giveen  up  in  his  room,  make  a  dash 
for  Southend,  in  the  car,  get  some  tobacco  and  a  bottle 
of  whisky  and  some  books,  and  dart  back  again.  I'll 
do  the  whole  thing  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  it's  better  to 
take  the  risk  than  lose  my  reason.' 

"  So  I  just  told  Giveen  I  was  very  sorry,  but  he'd 
have  to  accommodate  himself  to  circumstances,  and  I 
got  a  fishing-line  of  the  uncle's,  and  fastened  his  wrists 
behind  his  back.  Then  I  fastened  him  with  a  rope  and 
a  rolling  band  knot  to  the  iron  bedstead  in  the  bed- 
room, told  him  I  wouldn't  be  more  than  an  hour  away, 
locked  the  door  on  him,  jumped  into  the  car,  and  drove 
off. 

"  I  got  to  Southend  in  record  time.  I  only  ran  over 
one  hen,  but  I  very  nearly  had  an  old  woman  and  a 
dog.  I  piled  up  with  sixpenny  novels  and  comic  papers 
at  the  first  bookshop,  got  three  bottles  of  whisky,  half 
a  pound  of  navy-cut,  and  some  matches,  and  started 
back.  It  was  half-past  three  when  I  left  Southend, 
and  I  hadn't  gone  more  than  two  miles  when  the  car 
came  to  a  dead  stop.  I  don't  know  the  *  innards  '  of  a 
car.  I  only  knew  that  the  thing  had  stopped,  that  I 
was  nine  miles  from  the  cottage,  and  that  the  car  was 
right  in  the  fair  way  blocking  the  road. 


262  GARRYOWEN 

"  A  butcher's  cart  came  along,  and  the  butcher  got 
down  and  helped  me  to  push  her  out  of  the  middle  on  to 
the  side  of  the  road.  He  said  he  didn't  know  of  any 
repairing-shop  or  blacksmith's  nearer  than  Southend. 
I  asked  him  to  lend  me  his  horse  to  drag  the  car  back 
to  Southend,  but  he  couldn't.  He  had  his  meat  to  de- 
liver, but  he  said  I'd  be  sure  to  find  help  before  long, 
as  there  was  a  lot  of  traffic  on  the  road.  So  off  he 
went  and  left  me. 

"  I  thought  of  leaving  the  old  car  to  look  after  her- 
self, and  going  back  to  the  cottage  on  foot ;  but  I 
couldn't  do  that,  as  I'd  never  have  been  able  to  come 
back  for  her,  and  she's  worth  eight  or  nine  hundred. 
So  I  just  sat  in  her  and  smoked  a  pipe  and  waited. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  was  in  a  stew,  for  I  didn't  know  if  I'd 
made  the  fishing-line  too  tight  for  Giveen's  wrists,  and 
if  they  swelled,  mortification,  or  goodness  knows  what, 
might  have  come  on ;  and  I  began  to  think  of  having  to 
support  him  for  life  if  his  hands  had  to  be  cut  off ;  and 
then  I  began  to  think  that  maybe  he  might  die  of  it, 
and  I'd  be  hanged  for  murder  or  gaoled  for  life. 

"Presently  a  big  touring  car  came  along,  with  a 
young  fellow  and  a  chauffeur  in  it,  and  I  signalled  them 
to  stop,  and  it  pulled  up,  and  who  should  it  be  but  Billy 
Bones !  He's  Lord  St.  Ivel's  second  son,  you  know ; 
they  call  him  *  Billy  Bones '  because  they  say  he  never 
eats  anything  else  but  grilled  bones  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Last  time  I'd  seen  him  was  at  the  Rag- 
Tag  Club,  in  Cork  Street,  at  two  o'clock  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  playing  bridge  with  one  eye  shut  to  see  the 
pips  on  the  cards.  Billy  is  one  of  those  men  who  know 


GABRYOWEN  263 

everything,  and  he  knows  all  about  the  inside  of  a 
motor-car — or  thinks  he  does. 

"  '  Hello! '  said  Billy,  «  what's  up?  ' 

"  I  told  him,  and  he  hopped  out  of  his  car,  and  said 
he'd  have  everything  right  in  a  minute.  He  got  out 
his  repairing  tools,  whipped  off  his  coat,  and  got  right 
under  the  car  with  his  tools,  lying  on  his  back  in  the 
dust  of  the  road.  He's  one  of  those  fellows  who  don't 
care  what  they  do.  I  could  hear  him  under  the  car, 
and  he  seemed  taking  the  whole  thing  to  pieces.  You 
could  hear  the  nuts  coming  out  and  the  pipes  being  un- 
screwed and  the  petrol  escaping.  He  was  stuck  under 
there  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  he  came 
out,  looking  like  a  sweep,  and  he  said  it  was  all  right, 
and  I  only  had  to  start  her.  But  she  wouldn't 
stir. 

"  He  got  under  her  again,  and  spent  another  half- 
hour  tinkering  at  her,  and  then  he  came  out  and  said  it 
was  all  right  this  time,  and  told  me  to  start  her.  I 
started  her,  but  she  wouldn't  budge.  Then  Billy  told 
his  chauffeur  to  see  what  he  could  do,  and  the  chauffeur 
didn't  get  under  the  car;  he  just  examined  the  petrol 
supply  business,  and  in  about  sixteen  seconds  she  was 
all  right.  '  I  thought  I'd  done  it,'  said  Billy,  putting 
on  his  coat. 

"  There  was  an  hour  clean  gone,  and,  I  tell  you,  if  I 
came  fast  to  Southend  I  flew  going  back.  I  got  her 
under  the  shed  and  went  to  the  cottage.  As  soon  as  I 
went  in  I  saw  something  was  wrong,  for  the  bedroom 
door  was  open.  I  looked  into  the  bedroom,  and  Giveen 
was  gone." 


264  GARRYOWEN 

"  Bad  cess  to  him ! "  said  French,  who  had  been  fol- 
lowing the  raconteur  with  deep  interest. 

"  I  went  to  the  door  and  looked  around,"  said  Mr. 
Dashwood,  "  and  then  I  saw,  far  away  on  the  road, 
the  idiot  chap  that  had  taken  my  letter.  He  must  have 
come  to  the  cottage  looking  after  more  sixpences  and 
let  Giveen  loose.  It  was  now  getting  on  for  five,  and  the 
dusk  was  closing  in.  I  rushed  to  the  car,  got  her  out  of 
the  shed,  and  started  off  on  the  London  road.  You 
see,  I  knew  he  hadn't  taken  the  Southend  road,  or  I'd 
have  met  him,  and  there  was  nowhere  else  for  him  to  go, 
unless  he'd  taken  to  the  marshes,  or  gone  into  the  sea. 

"  I  turned  the  car  so  sharp  from  the  by-road  into  the 
London  road  that  I  nearly  upset  her,  and  then  I  let 
her  loose.  I  had  a  chapter  of  accidents,  for  my  hat 
blew  off,  and  I  had  to  stop  and  get  it.  Three  children 
were  making  mud-pies  in  the  middle  of  the  way  right 
before  a  cottage,  and  I  as  nearly  as  possible  made  hash 
of  them.  A  fellow  left  the  cottage  and  chivied  me  half 
a  mile,  and  took  a  short  cut  where  the  road  bent  like 
a  hairpin,  and  as  nearly  as  possible  nailed  me.  He 
wanted  to  get  my  number,  I  suppose — but  he  didn't. 

"  Then  I  remembered  that  I  ought  to  have  my  lamps 
lit,"  continued  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  It  was  getting  on  for 
an  hour  after  sundown,  and  those  police  on  the  country 
roads  don't  mind  swearing  to  ten  minutes.  I  wouldn't 
have  minded  if  it  had  been  an  ordinary  affair,  but  it 
wasn't  by  any  means,  and  I  didn't  want  to  be  summoned 
or  else  I  couldn't  swear  an  alibi  if  Giveen  took  an  ac- 
tion against  me  for  kidnapping  him.  So  I  stopped  the 
car  and  got  down  and  lit  the  lamps." 


GARRYOWEN  265 

Mr.  Dashwood  paused. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  listeners. 

"  Only  for  that  piece  of  confoundedly  foolish  care- 
fulness, I'd  have  collared  Giveen." 

Mr.  French  swallowed  hastily,  as  if  he  were  swal- 
lowing down  something  unpleasant,  then :  "  Go  on,"  he 
said. 

"  Think  of  it !  "  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  I've  always 
taken  chances  and  come  out  all  right,  and  the  first 
time  I'm  careful  there  I  go  and  spoil  everything.  Isn't 
it  enough  to  make  a  fellow  cuss?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  French,  "  and  it's  just  the  same  way 
with  me.  But  go  on." 

"  I  got  the  blessed  old  lamps  alight,"  said  Bobby, 
"  and  the  blessed  old  car  going,  and  I'd  gone  scarcely 
half  a  mile  when  I  saw  before  me,  after  I'd  rounded  a 
bend  of  the  road,  a  cart  going  full  speed.  It  was  one 
of  those  gipsy  sort  of  carts  that  fellows  hawk  chickens 
and  things  about  in,  harness  half  string,  and  an  old 
horse  like  a  scarecrow  to  look  at,  but  like  a  steam  en- 
gine to  go.  There  were  two  men  in  the  cart,  and  one 
was  Giveen.  Though  it  was  pretty  dusk,  I  could  tell 
him,  for  he'd  taken  his  hat  off,  and  his  bald  head  shone 
like  a  stone.  He  evidently  met  the  cart  and  paid  the 
man  for  a  lift. 

"  *  Now,'  said  I  to  myself,  slowing  down  a  bit  so  that 
I  could  think,  '  what  am  I  to  do?  If  I  try  to  seize  him 
by  force  the  fellow  he's  with  will  help  him  to  resist, 
maybe,  and,  if  he  doesn't,  he's  sure  to  tell  about  the 
affair  at  the  next  village,  and  I'll  have  the  police  on  to 
me.  I  know — a  smash-up  is  the  only  thing.  I'll  ram 


266  GARRYOWEN 

them  full  speed  and  hang  the  damage.  I  stand  as  good 
a  chance  to  be  killed  as  either  of  them.  If  Giveen  is 
killed,  or  the  sweep  he's  with — well,  it's  the  fortune  of 
war.  If  none  of  us  is  killed,  I'll  sit  on  Giveen's  head 
and  send  the  other  Johnnie  for  help.  Then,  while  he's 
gone,  I'll  nobble  Giveen  and  drag  him  back  to  the  cot- 
tage, across  country  this  time,  and  leave  the  old  motor 
to  look  after  herself.'  " 

"Did  you  really  intend  to  do  that?"  asked  Violet 
Grimshaw,  looking  at  Bobby  with  a  mixture  of  wonder 
and  admiration. 

"  Intend  to  do  it?  Why,  I  did  it,  only  the  old  car 
didn't.  I  shoved  the  lever  full  speed  ahead,  and  what 
does  she  do  but  stop  dead  and  shoot  me  on  to  her  bon- 
net!" 

"Did  Giveen  see  you?  "  asked  French. 

"  No.  He  never  looked  back  once,  and  he  and  the 
old  cart  he  was  in  vanished  in  the  dusk.  It  was  when  I 
got  down  to  light  the  lamps  that  something  happened 
to  the  machinery.  I  must  have  pulled  up  too  sharp, 
for  I  heard  something  go  in  the  fore  part  of  the  engine. 
Anyhow,  I  was  done  for. 

"  Well,  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  look  for 
help,  and  at  last  I  got  a  farmer  chap  to  hire  me  two 
horses  to  drag  the  old  rattle-trap  back  to  Southend. 
That  was  cheerful,  wasn't  it?  At  Southend  I  found  a 
motor-repairing  shop,  the  only  one  in  the  town,  and  the 
mechanic  who  did  the  repairing  out  with  a  car  that 
wouldn't  be  back  till  midnight.  So  I  paid  for  the 
horses  and  sent  them  off,  and  got  a  bed  for  the  night. 

"  Well,  to  cut  it  short,  I  was  up  at  six  this  morning, 


GARRYOWEN  267 

got  the  car  mended  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  back  I  went  to  London  full  speed.  But  the  repairs 
and  the  horse  hire  and  the  bed  had  taken  all  my  money, 
and  I  had  only  sixpence  in  my  pocket ;  and  I  hadn't 
eaten  for  I  don't  know  how  long.  I  stopped  at  a  vil- 
lage on  the  way  and  had  a  drink  of  water  at  a  pump. 

"  '  Never  mind,'  I  said  to  myself,  *  when  I  get  to  the 
Albany  I  can  borrow  something  from  Robert ' — he's 
my  servant,  you  know.  But  when  I  got  to  the  Albany 
Robert  wasn't  there,  and  my  rooms  were  locked  up. 
You  see,  he  thought  I  wasn't  coming  back  for  some 
time,  and  I  always  send  him  a  wire  the  day  before  I 
come.  It  was  just  eight  o'clock,  and  I  was  as  hungry 
as  anything,  but  I  was  in  such  a  tearing  rage  that  I 
never  thought  of  borrowing  money  from  anyone,  as  I 
might  have  done.  Sixpence  is  no  use  for  food  in  the 
West  End,  so  I  sent  you  a  wire  with  it,  got  some  more 
petrol  at  Simpson's,  and  came  down  here  full  speed." 

French  got  up  and  took  Mr.  Dashwood's  hand  and 
shook  it. 

"  If  I  live  to  be  five  hundred,"  said  the  emotional 
French,  "  I'll  never  forget  this  to  you." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Bobby.  "It  was  nothing.  I— I 
enjoyed  it — at  least,  part  of  it.  Anyhow,  I'd  do  it  over 
again  to-morrow  for  the  excitement  of  the  thing." 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  speaking  as  though 
she  were  criticising  some  work  of  art,  "  that  the  finest 
part  of  the  whole  thing  was  your  determination  to  run 
into  the  cart  at  full  speed  and  smash  it  up.  I  suppose 
it  was  wicked,  but  it  was  fine ! " 

"  See  here,"  said  Mr.   Dashwood,   anxious  to   turn 


268  GARRYOWEN 

away  praise  from  himself,  "  what  we  have  to  think  of 
now  is  Giveen.  What's  to-day?  The  10th,  isn't  it? 
Well,  he'll  see  that  man  Lewis  to-day,  as  sure  as  nuts." 

"  If  he  does,"  said  French,  "  Lewis  will  have  a  bailiff 
here  to-morrow,  and  I'll  be  done  for." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I've  been  thinking  the  thing  out  on  the  way  down. 
If  he  puts  a  bailiff  in,  let's  corrupt  the  bailiff." 

"  Sure,  I've  got  nothing  to  corrupt  him  with,"  said 
French.  "  Money's  the  only  thing  to  corrupt  a  man 
with,  and  I  haven't  any." 

"We  might  offer  him  a  percentage  of  the  profits 
if  he'll  just  shut  his  eyes  and  let  us  take  the  horse  to 
Epsom,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "  We  don't  want  to  run 
away  with  the  horse.  We  only  want  a  loan  of  him  for 
the  race." 

"  That's  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  If  the  man  has  any  sporting  instincts,"  said  Mr. 
Dashwood,  "  it  ought  to  be  easy  enough.  Give  him  a 
few  glasses  of  whisky  and  get  him  jolly,  and  the 
thing's  done." 

"Faith,  and  it's  not  a  bad  idea,  after  all,"  said 
French.  "  I  was  thinking  myself  of  getting  hold  of  the 
chap  and  making  a  prisoner  of  him  in  one  of  the  loose- 
boxes,  same  as  Moriarty  suggested  for  me  to  do  with 
Giveen ;  but  I've  thought  it  over,  and  there's  no  use  in 
it.  It  would  only  mean  that  they'd  stick  me  in  prison 
and  Heaven  knows  what.  It  would  ruin  me  entirely.  But 
if  we  can  get  the  chap  to  consent,  that's  a  different 
matter." 


GARRYOWEN  269 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  would  never  do  to  make  him  a  prisoner," 
said  the  girl.  "  That  would  be  a  common,  brutal  sort 
of  thing  to  do.  But  if  you  can  persuade  him  just  to 
let  the  horse  run  the  race,  it  won't  hurt  the  horse  and 
it  may  make  your  fortune.  Even  that,  I'm  afraid,  is 
scarcely  right.  It's  tampering  with  his  conscience." 

"  But  none  of  these  chaps  have  consciences,"  said 
Bobby.  "  At  least,  none  to  speak  of." 

"  Then,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  you  can't 
tamper  with  them." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

WHEN  Bobby  had  sufficiently  rested  himself,  he  took 
the  car  to  the  inn  at  Crowsnest  and  put  it  up,  and  then 
came  back  to  The  Martens,  where  a  bed  was  made  up 
for  him,  and  where  he  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  for  ten 
hours,  reappearing  at  half-past  nine  that  night  for 
some  supper  and  a  pipe.  Then  he  retired  to  rest,  and 
put  another  ten  hours  of  slumber  behind  him,  awaken- 
ing in  the  morning  a  new  man. 

Nothing  important  came  by  the  post,  only  a  few  cir- 
culars and  a  postcard  effusively  thanking  Miss  Grim- 
shaw  for  some  flowers  which  she  had  sent  to  a  female 
friend.  As  the  day  wore  on,  and  as  nothing  appeared 
in  the  form  of  a  bailiff,  the  hopes  of  the  party  rose 
steadily.  Mr.  Dashwood  had  suggested  that  the  horse 
should  be  taken  right  away  to  Epsom,  but  French  was 
too  old  a  practitioner  to  make  such  a  false  move  as  that. 
For,  if  a  bailiff  arrived  and  found  the  horse  gone,  it 
would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  track  him. 
You  cannot  entrain  a  racehorse  without  the  fact  being 
known.  Even  if  he  were  ridden  up  to  London,  a  tele- 
gram would  have  to  be  sent  on  to  get  a  horse-box  for 
the  journey  to  Epsom.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  wait  and  trust  in  luck. 

The  morning  of  the  12th  broke  fair  and  unclouded, 
with  no  threat — at  all  events,  in  the  weather — of  bail- 

270 


GARRYOWEN  271 

iffs.  French  had  made  all  his  arrangements  for  mov- 
ing the  horse  on  the  morrow.  A  horse-box  was  to  be  at- 
tached to  the  10 :15  train  from  Crowsnest ;  also  to  the 
London  train  for  Epsom  that  started  at  1 :55.  In  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  now  the  horse  would  be  out  of 
Crowsnest,  and  the  day-after-the-day-after-to-morrow 
was  the  race. 

Garryowen  was  not  even  mentioned  in  the  betting 
lists.  White  Moth  was  favourite,  Vodki  was  second 
favourite ;  after  Vodki  you  might  have  read  such  names 
as  your  fancy  wills,  but  not  the  name  of  Garryowen. 
Only  in  the  lists  of  the  big  English  and  Continental 
betting  agents  did  this  name  obscurely  appear.  French 
had  been  getting  his  money  steadily  on  the  horse  at  65 
and  70  to  1.  He  reckoned  that  when  the  flag  fell  he 
would  stand  to  win  seventy-five  thousand  pounds,  and 
the  thought  of  this,  when  it  came  on  him  now  and 
then,  put  him  into  such  a  fever  that  he  could  not  sit 
still 

They  were  all  sitting  at  luncheon  to-day  and  merry 
enough  for  the  moment,  when  a  knock  came  to  the 
door,  and  Norah  entered. 

"  Plaze,  sorr,"  said  Norah,  "  there's  a  man  wants  to 
see  you." 

French  half  rose  from  the  table. 

"A  man?" 

"  Yes,  sorr.  He  came  round  be  the  kitchen  way  and 
'What  are  yiz  doin'  in  me  yard?'  says  Mrs.  Driscoll. 
*  Is  your  masther  in  ?  '  says  he.  '  If  he  is,  tell  him  a 
person  wants  to  see  him.'  " 

French,  without  a  word,  rose  and  left  the  room. 


272  GARRYOWEN 

"  He's  come ! "  said  Bobby,  putting  down  his  knife 
and  fork. 

"  It  sounds  like  it,"  said  the  girl.  "  But  it  may  be 
only  a  tradesman." 

"  Shall  I  go  out  and  listen  at  the  kitchen  door?  " 
asked  Effie,  half  slipping  from  her  chair. 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  sit  still.  You  are  too 
fond  of  listening  at  doors,  and  only  for  you,  you 
naughty  child " 

She  checked  herself.  Only  for  Effie  and  her  mis- 
chievous letter  they  might  have  been  in  security  now, 
and  not  threatened  like  this. 

"  Only  for  me,  what?  "  asked  Effie. 

Miss  Grimshaw  had  no  time  to  reply,  for  at  that  mo- 
ment Mr.  French  re-entered  the  room.  His  face  was 
flushed ;  he  shut  the  door ;  and  then,  "  May  the  divil 
fly  away  with  Dick  Giveen !  "  he  said.  "  He's  got  me 
at  last,  confound  him !  It's  the  bailiff." 

"  Oh,  heavens  !  "  said  Bobby. 

"What's  he  like?"  asked  Miss  Grimshaw  the  prac- 
tical. 

"  Like ! "  cried  French.  "  He's  like  a  chap  you  see 
in  a  nightmare — white  as  tallow  and  no  legs  to  him, 
and  he's  going  out  now  to  inspect  the  horses.  Mark 
you,  that  chap's  no  use  to  us;  he's  one  of  the  Metho- 
dist-parson type,  and  he's  not  got  the  heart  in  him 
to  help  us." 

"  What  is  his  name?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Piper,"  replied  French,  pouring  himself  out  some 
whisky. 


GARRYOWEN  273 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  wait  here,  both  of  you ;  one  never 
knows  what  one  can  do  till  one  tries." 

She  left  the  room  hurriedly,  and  sought  the  stable- 
yard,  where  she  found  Moriarty. 

"  Moriarty,"  she  said,  "  the  bailiff  has  come,  and  he's 
just  going  to  look  at  the  horses.  Be  sure  that,  what- 
ever you  do,  you  be  civil  to  him." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  replied  Moriarty. 

"  Tell  Andy  the  same." 

"  Yes,  miss." 

"  I'm  going  round  to  the  kitchen  now  to  bring  him." 

"  Yes,  miss." 

She  left  the  stableyard  and  sought  the  kitchen.  Seated 
in  the  kitchen,  hat  in  hand,  was  an  individual  of  uncer- 
tain age.  French's  description  hit  him  off  to  a  "  T." 
Pale-faced,  scanty-haired,  with  a  trace  of  side- whiskers, 
he  had  about  him  a  suggestion  of  aggressiveness  and  a 
suggestion  of  weakness  very  disheartening  to  his  new 
beholder,  who,  however,  smiled  upon  him  as  she  en- 
tered. 

"  Mr.  Piper,  I  believe?  "  said  Violet,  speaking  in  a 
hurried  and  offhand  and  friendly  manner.  "  I  have 
come  round  to  take  you  to  see  the  horses.  But  have  you 
had  any  luncheon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Piper,  rising  to  his  feet. 

"  May  I  not  get  you  a  glass  of  wine,  or  something 
after  your  journey?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  never  touch  liquor,"  said  Mr. 
Piper. 

"  Oh,  well,  then,  will  you  follow  me?  " 


274  GARRYOWEN 

She  led  the  way  to  the  stables  round  by  the  kitchen 
entrance.  All  this  was  French's  duty,  if  any  one's,  but 
the  girl  would  not  trust  him;  she  determined  to  show 
Mr.  Piper  that  the  horses  were  safe,  treat  him  as  civ- 
illy as  possible,  and  try  to  gauge  his  corruptibility  in 
the  process. 

"  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  this  is  a  hired  house," 
said  she,  as  she  led  the  way,  *'  and  that  there  is 
nothing  here  belonging  to  Mr.  French  but  the 
horses?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Piper.  «I  asked  at  the  station 
about  that,  although  my  instructions  mainly  concerned 
the  horses.  House  and  furniture  belong  to  Mr.  Em- 
manuel Ibbetson.  Still,"  concluded  he,  "  I  must  attend 
to  it  that  nothing  is  moved  from  here,  neither  stick  nor 
stone,  till  further  orders." 

"  If  Mr.  Ibbetson  wanted  to  take  his  furniture 
away,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  almost  losing  command  of 
her  temper,  "  I  don't  think  you  could  stop  him." 

"  That's  not  the  question  at  isha,"  replied  Mr.  Piper. 
"  I'm  thinking  of  French." 

"  You  mean,  I  presume,  Mr.  French?" 

"  Precisely." 

"  Moriarty,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  "  show  this — man 
the  horses." 

Moriarty  opened  the  upper  door  of  a  loose-box,  and 
The  Cat  thrust  her  evil  head  out.  The  Cat  by  Isonomy 
II.  out  of  Express,  would  have  won  her  owner  much 
money,  only  for  her  temper.  She  had  a  fleering  eye. 
The  Cat's  under  lip  and  the  cock  of  her  ears  were  the 
two  points  you  noticed  at  close  quarters,  till  she  nob~ 


GARRYOWEN  275 

bled  you,  and  took  a  piece  out  of  your  arm,  or  let  fly, 
and,  to  use  the  language  of  Moriarty,  "  kicked  you  to 
flinders." 

"  Look  out ! "  yelled  Moriarty.  He  wasn't  a  mo- 
ment too  soon,  for  in  another  second  The  Cat  would 
have  had  the  bailiff. 

Piper  stepped  back  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  his 
sleeve.  To  be  snapped  at  by  a  horse  is  not  a  pleasant 
experience. 

"  It's  only  her  play,"  said  Moriarty,  "  but  don't  you 
ever  open  the  door  of  the  box  be  yourself,  for,  begad, 
if  she  once  got  a  hoult  of  you,  it's  into  the  box  she'll 
have  you,  over  the  dure  top,  and  after  that,  begorra, 
it  id  be  all  over  but  the  funeral.  Here's  the  other 
horse." 

He  opened  Garryowen's  box. 

Garryowen  projected  his  lovely  head  and  expanded 
his  nostrils  at  the  stranger.  Miss  Grimshaw  looked 
from  the  horse  to  the  bailiff,  and  from  the  bailiff  to  the 
horse,  contrasting  the  two  animals  in  her  mind. 

"  Are  these  carriage  horses  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Piper,  as 
Miss  Grimshaw  retired  to  the  house,  leaving  him  in 
charge  of  Moriarty. 

"Carriage  what?" 

"  Horses." 

"Sure,  where  were  you  born  that  you  never  saw  a 
racehorse?  " 

"  If  you  arsk  me  where  I  was  born,  I  was  born  in 
Peckham,"  said  Mr.  Piper,  "  and  if  you  arsk  me  if  I 
have  ever  seen  a  racehorse,  I  am  proud  to  say  I  have 
not,  nor  a  race-meeting ;  and  if  you  arsk  me  what  I'd  do 


276  GARRYOWEN 

with  jockeys  and  publicans  and  all  those  who  corrupt 
the  people  and  take  honest  men's  wages  out  of  their 
pocket — I  say,  if  you  arsk  me  what  I'd  do  with  them, 
I'd  answer  you  that  I'd  put  them  in  a  sack  and  the 
sack  in  the  Thames." 

"  Faith,"  said  Moriarty,  contemplating  his  vis-a-vis, 
"  if  I  hadn't  fallen  into  conversation  wid  you  I'd  never 
have  guessed  there  was  so  much  '  arsk '  about  you ; 
but,  faith,  you're  right.  It's  the  whisky  and  the 
horses  that  plays  the  divil  and  all  wid  men.  Now,  I'd 
lay,  from  your  face,  you'd  never  been  dhrunk  in  your 
life." 

"  I've  never  even  tasted  alcohol,"  said  Piper. 
"  Neither  alcohol  nor  tobacco  has  ever  sullied  my  mouth, 
nor  shall  it  ever  sully  a  child  of  mine." 

"  Have  you  any  children  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not." 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  Moriarty,  "  for  with  such  a 
father  they  couldn't  help  turnin'  out  fine  men.  May  I 
ax,  are  you  a  Liberal  or  a  Conservative?  " 

"  I'm  a  Socialist." 

"  The  masther  has  tould  me  about  thim,"  said  Mor- 
iarty, closing  the  door  of  Garry owen's  box  and  taking 
his  seat  on  a  bucket.  "  You're  wan  of  thim  that  b'laves 
every  man  is  born  equal,  and  we  should  all  share  alike. 
D'you  mane  to  tell  me  that,  now?  " 

Mr.  Piper,  led  on  to  his  favourite  topic,  expanded, 
taking  his  seat  on  the  edge  of  an  old  bin  by  the  stable 
door. 

"  So,"  said  Moriarty,  "  thim's  your  opinions  ?  rA  big 
puddin',  and  every  man  wid  a  plate  and  spoon.  And 


GARRYOWEN  277 

who,  may  I  ax,  is  to  make  the  puddin',  and  who's  to 
wash  the  plates?" 

Mr.  Piper  explained  that  every  man  would  help  to 
make  the  pudding,  and  every  man  would  wash  his  own 
plate. 

"  And  s'pose,"  said  Moriarty,  "  one  chap  takes  a 
double  helpin'  before  his  turn,  or  cracks  his  plate  over 
another  chap's  head?  " 

Mr.  Piper  explained  that  every  man  would  be  equally 
ungreedy  and  equally  well  disposed  to  his  neighbour. 

"  And  where  are  you  going  to  get  thim  men  ?  "  asked 
the  tireless  Moriarty.  "  And,  see  here,  they're  not  go- 
ing to  be  all  men,  unless  you  smother  the  women.  And, 
droppin'  the  puddin',  for  the  sake  of  argument,  and 
comin'  to  the  question  of  bunnets,  d'you  think  one  wo- 
man is  going  to  be  content  wid  as  good  a  bunnet  as 
her  next-door  neighbour,  and  the  same  price?  D'you 
think  Mrs.  Moriarty  won't  be  sayin'  to  her  husband, 

*  Mick,  you  blackguard,  why  don't  you  stir  your  stumps 
and  make  more  money  to  buy  me  a  hat  and  feather 
that'll  squash  Mrs.  Mooney's?'     And  Mick,  he'll  say, 

*  Sure,  Norah,  how'm  I  to  make  more  money  when  these 
Social  chaps  won't  let  me  earn  more'n  five  pound  a 
week?  '    And  what'll  she  say  but '  Be  hanged  to  Social- 
ism, I  want  a  blazin'  big  hat  wid  a  feather  twice  as  big 
as  Mrs.  Mooney's,  and  I'm  goin'  to  get  it.'  " 

"  That's  not  the  point  at  isha." 

"  Isha  or  not,  you  see  here.  You  may  plot  and  plan 
and  collar  your  masther's  money  and  pay  it  out  all 
round  to  the  likes  of  yourself,  but  it's  the  wimmen'll 
quare  your  pitch,  for  begob,  a  man  may  get  rid  of  a 


278  GARRYOWEN 

masther,  but  he'll  never  get  rid  of  a  misthress  as  long 
as  the  world  rowls,  and  wather  runs.  Tell  me,"  said 
Moriarty,  with  his  eyes  examining  Mr.  Piper's  legs 
critically  and  not  complimentarily,  "  tell  me  now,  are 
you  wan  of  them  chaps  the  masther  spakes  of  who're 
always  boo-hooin'  about  the  souldiers  and  ba-haain' 
about  the  sailors  and  wishin'  to  live  in  pace  and  con- 
tintment,  sittin'  on  your  starns  under  fig-trees  wid  the 
figs  droppin'  into  your  open  gobs?  " 

Mr.  Piper  explained  that  he  was  a  peace  party  man. 

"  I  thought  you  was,"  said  Moriarty,  still  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  his  examinee's  legs,  "  and  faith,  I'm  al- 
most converted  meself  to  the  cause  whin  I  look  at  you. 
We  had  a  man  wanst,  and  he  might  ha'  been  your  twin 
brother,  and  he  came  down  to  Cloyne,  lecturin'  on  all 
thim  things,  and  settin'  up  to  contist  the  seat  in  Par- 
li'mint  wid  ould  Mr.  Barrin'ton,  of  Inchkillin  Haal. 
Quid  Mr.  Barrin'ton  stud  six-fut-four.  He'd  never 
missed  a  meet  of  the  houn's  for  sixty  years,  'cept  whin 
he  was  lad  up  wid  broken  limbs  or  sittin'  in  Parli'mint. 
This  chap  called  ould  Mr.  Barrin'ton  his  'ponent,  said 
he  was  wastin'  the  money  of  the  people  keepin'  houn's 
and  horses,  and  went  on  till  wan  day  the  bhoys  got 
hold  of  him — and  d'ye  know  what  they  did  to  him?  " 

"  No." 

"  Faith,  they  headed  him  up  in  a  barr'l,  and  rowled 
him  into  the  river." 

Moriarty,  without  another  word,  got  up,  left  Mr. 
Piper  to  his  meditations,  and  strode  towards  the  kitchen. 

"Where's  the  masther?"  asked  Moriarty  of  Norah. 

"  In  the  sittin'-room,"  replied  Norah. 


GARRYOWEN  S79 

He  passed  through  the  kitchen,  crossed  the  little  hall, 
and  knocked  at  the  sitting-room  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  French's  voice,  and  he  entered. 

French,  Miss  Grimshaw,  and  Bobby  Dashwood  were 
seated  about  the  room.  The  men  were  smoking  and  in 
arm-chairs,  Miss  Grimshaw  was  at  the  table,  sitting 
erect,  with  her  elbows  upon  it.  Her  lips  were  pursed, 
for  they  had  been  discussing  Mr.  Piper. 

"  If  you  plaze,  sorr,"  said  Moriarty  when  French 
bade  him  speak,  "  I've  been  takin'  the  size  of  that  chap 
in  the  yard." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  him,  Moriarty?  " 

"  Faith,  sorr,  I'm  thinkin'  he  was  one  of  the  left- 
overs whin  they  was  makin'  parr'ts,  and  the  divil  thried 
to  make  a  monkey  of  him,  and  spiled  it  in  the  bakin'. 
He's  no  use  at  all,  sorr,  to  be  talked  over  or  talked 
under." 

"We  couldn't  bribe  the  man,  do  you  think?"  asked 
Mr.  French. 

"  No,  sorr,"  replied  Moriarty,  "  he's  not  the  man  to 
take  a  bribe  to  do  a  decent  turn.  He's  wan  of  those 
chaps  that  hates  his  betthers — soci — what  d'you  call 
'em,  sorr?" 

"Socialists?" 

"  That's  thim." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  said  Bobby. 

"I  thought  he  looked  like  it,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw. 

"  Hang  him !  "  said  French.  "  I  thought  there  was 
something  wrong  with  the  beast  besides  white  liver 
and  Board  school " 

"  If  you  plaze,  sorr,"  said  Moriarty,  with  a  grin, 


280  GARRYOWEN 

**  I've  had  a  long  talk  wid  him,  and  he's  convarted 
me." 

"  Hullo !  "  said  French,  staring  at  his  henchman, 
"what's  this  you're  saying?" 

"  I've  come  to  b'lave,  sorr,  in  sharin'  and  sharin' 
alike.  If  you  plaze,  sorr,  have  you  everythin'  ready 
for  gettin'  the  horse  away  in  the  mornin'?" 

"  Getting  the  horse  away ! "  burst  out  French,  for- 
getting Moriarty's  conversion  and  everything  else  in 
an  outburst  of  rage.  "  How  the  dickens  do  you  think 
I'm  to  get  him  away  with  that  beast  stuck  here?" 

"  All  the  same,  sorr,"  replied  Moriarty,  "  if  you'll 
lave  things  to  me,  you  won't  find  any  thrubble  in  the 
mornin,'  and  not  for  some  days  afther,  I'm  thinkin." 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"  If  you  plaze,  sorr,  I'd  rather  just  keep  me  tongue 
shut  in  me  head.  It's  not  that  I  aren't  wishful  to 
tell  you,  sorr,  but  it's  the  divil  to  spake  whin  you're 
fishin'.  Do  you  remimber,  sorr,  young  Mr.  James  and 
his  wife,  whin  they  came  to  Drumgool,  and  went  out 
fishin'  the  black  water?  Him  and  she  wid  a  luncheon- 
basket  and  tame  minnows  presarved  in  bottles  of  gly- 
cerin' and  the  hoight  of  fine  rods  and  patent  hucks, 
and  landin'  nets,  and  groun'  bate,  and  the  Lord  knows 
all ;  and  you  could  hear  thim  chatterin'  to  wan  another 
half  a  mile  away,  and  the  wather  thick  wid  fish.  And 
the  divil  a  thing  they  caught  in  three  days  but  a  craw- 
been." 

"  Moriarty  is  right,"  said  Miss  Grimshaw,  who  had 
a  profound  belief  in  the  capacity  of  Moriarty  for  do- 


GARRYOWEN  281 

ing  the  right  thing  just  in  the  right  way,  when  the 
thing  was  a  matter  of  diplomacy. 

"  Look  here,  Moriarty,"  said  French,  "  are  you 
thinking  of  making  a  prisoner  of  this  chap?  For  that 
won't  do." 

"No,    sorr,"   said   Moriarty.      "  I'm   not." 

"He  doesn't  drink?" 

"No,  sorr." 

"  You're  not  going  to  bribe  him  ?  " 

"No,  sorr." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  if  you  can  find  some  other 
means  of  putting  him  out  of  action  you're  a  cleverer 
man  than  I  am." 

"  If  you'll  just  lave  it  to  me,  sorr,  you  may  rest 
contint." 

French  poured  out  a  glass  of  whisky,  which  Mor- 
iarty swallowed  neat.  Then,  wiping  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand  and  saluting  the  company  as- 
sembled, he  left  the  room. 

"He'll  do  it,"  burst  out  Mr.  Dashwood,  who 
seemed  suddenly  and  for  the  first  time  to  fully  com- 
prehend the  possibilities  and  impossibilities  of  Mor- 
iarty. 

"Faith,"  said  French,  «I  believe  he  will.  I've 
never  known  Moriarty  fail  yet.  Upon  my  word,  I 
haven't.  Looking  back  now,  I  never  remember  him 
not  getting  the  better  of  any  man  he  crossed  the  foils 
with.  Do  you  remember  that  blackguard  who  came 
to  hamstring  Garryowen?  And  the  best  of  the  mat- 
ter is  he  always  does  things  in  such  a  way  the  laugh 


282  GARRYOWEN 

is  on  his  side,  and  the  law,  begad!  Do  you  remember 
that  bailiff  he  drove  to  the  old  castle?  Well,  the 
law  couldn't  have  touched  him  for  that.  The  man 
wanted  to  be  driven  to  my  house,  and  that  was  my 
house,  though  I  didn't  live  there." 

"  It's  a  man  like  Moriarty  that  comes  over  to  the 
States  with  a  bundle  under  his  arm,"  said  Miss  Grim- 
shaw,  "  one  moment  a  poor  exile  from  Erin,  standing 
on  a  shore  that  is  lonely  and  chill,  and  the  next  day, 
to  quote  one  of  our  poets,  he's  *  Alderman  Mike  inthro- 
djucin  a  Bill.'  I  wonder  why  the  Moriartys  are  so 
much  nicer  in  their  own  country." 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

MORIARTY,  when  he  left  his  master,  betook  him  to 
the  stables  and  his  duties.  Mr.  Piper  had  vacated  the 
stableyard,  and  was  making  a  tour  of  the  premises, 
admiring  the  view  from  all  points,  and  quite  on  the 
alert  for  strategical  moves. 

He  was  by  no  manner  of  means  a  fool  in  his  pro- 
fession; watchful  as  a  stoat,  unobtrusive,  when  his 
mouth  was  closed,  fitting  into  corners,  and  unremark- 
able, he  made  an  excellent  bailiff. 

He  had  always  been  a  careful  and  saving  man,  and 
his  character  had  never  been  developed  by  vice.  What 
lay  in  the  subliminal  depths  of  Mr.  Piper,  Mr.  Piper 
himself  could  not  say.  That  unrest  lay  there  was 
evidenced  by  his  Socialistic  tendencies. 

He  inhabited  rooms  at  Balham  or  Brixton,  I  forget 
which.  He  never  swore,  he  never  drank,  he  never 
smoked,  or  looked  at  the  female  population  of  the 
British  Islands  with  a  view  to  matrimony  or  the  re- 
verse. The  man  was  without  a  visible  vice,  and  he  had 
several  visible  virtues.  It  was  this  fact  that  made  the 
problem  of  him  so  interesting  and  made  the  attentive 
student  of  him  pause  to  ask,  "  What  makes  him  so 
beastly?" 

You  know  the  man. 

Moriarty,   having  watered  the  horses   and   seen   to 


284  GARRYOWEN 

them  with  the  scrupulous  attention  of  a  nurse,  called 
Andy  to  him. 

"  Andy,"  said  Moriarty,  "  did  you  see  the  chap 
that's  come  to  collar  the  horses  ?  " 

"Seen  him?"  said  Andy,  for  once  loquacious. 
"  Faith,  I  was  near  pitchforkin'  him  as  he  was  standin' 
there,  afther  you'd  left  him.  Sure,  wasn't  I  listenin' 
to  him " 

"  Shut  your  head,"  said  Moriarty,  "  and  listen  to 
your  betthers.  Go  fetch  me  a  big  truss  of  straw." 

Andy,  obedient  as  a  dog,  went  off  for  the  straw,  and 
returned  with  it  on  his  back. 

Moriarty  opened  the  door  of  the  loose-box  next 
to  The  Cat's. 

"  Stick  it  here  in  the  corner,"  said  Moriarty,  indi- 
cating the  corner  in  question. 

Andy  flung  the  truss  of  straw  in  the  corner. 

"That's  right,"  said  Moriarty. 

He  took  a  five-shilling-piece  from  his  pocket,  and, 
leading  Andy  to  the  side  of  the  bungalow,  gave  him 
the  coin,  gave  him  some  instructions,  and  pointed  in 
the  direction  of  the  village." 

Andy,  with  a  grin  on  his  face,  started. 

At  half-past  eight  that  evening  Mr.  Piper,  seated 
in  the  kitchen  finishing  his  supper,  heard  Andy's 
voice.  He  was  colloguing  in  the  scullery  with  Mrs. 
Driscoll,  and  what  he  said  was  distinctly  audible  in 
the  kitchen. 

Said  Andy,  "Is  the  bailiff  chap  still  at  his  sup- 
per?" 

"  Faith,  and  he  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Driscoll. 


GARRYOWEN  285 

"  Then  kape  him  there  for  another  half-hour,  for 
Mori  arty 's  goin'  to  play  him  a  trick  and  get  the 
horses  away  unbeknownst  to  him." 

Mr.   Piper  fell  into  the  trap. 

He  rose  from  the  table,  used  the  back  of  his  hand 
as  a  serviette,  strolled  to  the  kitchen  door,  and  con- 
templated the  evening.  The  sky  was  cloudless,  and 
a  full  moon  was  rising  over  the  hills.  From  the  stables 
came  occasionally  the  stamping  of  horse-hoofs.  He 
strolled  around  to  the  yard,  where  he  met  Moriarty, 
who  was  lighting  a  stable  lantern. 

"  Fine  evening,"  said  Mr.  Piper. 

"  Fine  which?  " 

"  Evening." 

"Oh,  faith,  it's  fine  enough.  Andy,  where  were 
your  blitherin*  skylights  when  you  stuck  this  wick  in 
the  stable  lanthern?" 

He  got  it  alight  and  closed  it.  Then  he  swung 
off  with  it,  followed  by  Andy,  and  the  pair  disap- 
peared. 

"Done  'em  that  time,"  said  the  bailiff  to  himself. 
"  I  doubt  but  it  will  be  a  question  of  me  setting  up 
all  night  and  sleeping  in  the  day." 

He  made  a  tour  of  the  premises.  He  left  them,  and 
took  a  walk  on  the  road  down  below,  enjoying  the 
beauty  of  the  evening.  An  hour  and  a  half  later 
found  him  again  in  the  stableyard. 

It  had  just  gone  ten,  and  Mr.  Piper  had  scarcely 
entered  the  yard  than  Moriarty,  with  the  lantern  in 
his  hand,  appeared. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  abed,"  said  Moriarty. 


286  GARRYOWEN 

"Are  you  frightened  the  horses  will  fly  away  wid 
themselves,  or  what  is  it  that  ails  you?  " 

"  My  duty  is  my  duty,  and  yours  is  yours,"  replied 
the  bailiff.  "  We'll  keep  'em  apart,  if  you  please, 
and  so  be  better  friends." 

"  Friends,"  said  Moriarty  with  a  horrible  leer  on 
his  face.  "  Sure,  that's  what  I'm  wishin'  to  be,  only 
you're  so  cowld.  Come  here  wid  me  now,"  said  Mor- 
iarty, taking  the  other's  arm  and  leading  him  towards 
the  loose-box  next  The  Cat's,  "  and  I'll  show  you  me 
intintions.  Maybe  it's  the  likin'  I've  taken  for  you, 
or  maybe  it's  just  the  stringth  of  your  arguments, 
but  you've  convarted  me  to  the  sociality  bizness,  and 
I'm  goin'  to  share  and  share  alike  wid  you." 

He  opened  the  loose-box  door,  and  there  in  the 
darkness  stood  Andy,  like  a  horrible  gnome. 

"  Why,  what  are  you  doin'  here,  Andy  ?  "  asked 
Moriarty,  with  an  undercurrent  of  jocularity  in  his 
tone  that  struck  Mr.  Piper  as  being  out  of  place  and 
allied  to  the  sinister. 

"I?"  said  Andy.     "  Nothin'." 

"  I've  brought  a  friend  wid  me,"  said  Moriarty, 
speaking  as  though  Piper  were  an  absolute  stranger 
to  Andy.  "  He's  comin'  into  the  loose-box  wid  us 
to  help  me  dhrink  his  health." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Piper,  "  I  never  drink." 

He  took  a  step  backwards,  but  Moriarty's  hand 
fell  on  his  arm. 

"  Just  for  wanst,  now,"  said  Moriarty,  in  the  tone 
of  sweet  persuasion  that  a  boon  companion  uses  to  a 
boon  companion.  "  Just  for  wanst." 


GARRYOWEN  287 

"  Thank  you,  I  never  drink,"  said  Piper,  with  a 
rising  inflexion  that  did  not  improve  his  voice.  "  And 
I'd  thank  you  to  release  my  arm." 

"  Come  on,  Andy,"  said  Moriarty,  "  and  help  me 
to  persuade  Misther  Piper  to  jine  us.  Now,  then; 
come  quiet.  That's  it.  Sure,  I  knew  you'd  listen  to 
raison." 

Miss  Grimshaw,  who  had  retired  early,  was  just 
in  the  act  of  undressing  when  voices  from  the  stable- 
yard  outside  her  window  made  her  raise  the  slats  of 
her  blind  and  peep  out. 

By  the  full  moonlight  she  saw  Moriarty  and  Andy 
at  the  loose-box  door.  Piper  was  between  them,  Mor- 
iarty was  gently  persuading  him  from  behind,  apply- 
ing the  vis  a  tergo ;  the  vis  a  fronte  was  supplied  by 
Andy,  who  had  fast  hold  of  the  bailiff's  left  arm.  She 
could  not  help  remembering  the  sheep  which  she  had 
seen  one  night,  not  so  very  long  ago,  haled  into  the 
same  loose-box,  Moriarty  pushing  it  behind,  Andy 
assisting  its  movements  from  in  front. 

The  loose-box  door  closed  on  Moriarty  and  his  vic- 
tim, just  as  it  had  closed  on  the  sheep.  Miss  Grim- 
shaw, half  horrified,  half  amused,  filled  half  with  curi- 
osity, half  with  alarm,  waited  for  sounds  to  tell  of  what 
was  going  forward;  but  no  sound  came,  and  nothing 
spoke  of  tragedy  save  the  gleam  from  the  lantern,  a 
topaz  pencil  of  light  that  shone  through  the  latch  hole 
of  the  door  and  dissolved  in  the  moonlight  of  the 
yard. 

"  Put  your  fut  agin  the  door,  Andy,"  said  Moriarty, 
when  Piper,  knowing  himself  in  a  trap,  and  knowing 


288  GARRYOWEN 

the  uselessness  of  calling  out  or  resisting,  was  safely 
inside  the  loose-box. 

He  hung  the  lantern  on  a  hook,  and  then,  pointing  to 
three  buckets  that  stood  upside  down  close  to  the  heap 
of  straw  in  the  corner,  "  Take  a  sate,"  said  Moriarty. 

Piper  took  a  seat  on  the  end  bucket  near  the 
door. 

"  Not  that  wan,"  said  Moriarty.  "  The  middle  wan. 
Then  Andy  and  I'll  be  able  to  sit  on  either  side  of  you, 
and  the  bottle'll  pass  more  convanient." 

He  produced  a  bottle,  a  jug,  and  a  glass.  It  was  a 
bottle  of  Teach's  "Old  Highland  Mountain  Dew." 
Andy  had  fetched  it  from  the  inn  at  Crowsnest.  This 
old  Highland  mountain  dew  was  a  fine,  old-fashioned, 
fusil-oil-tinctured  fighting  spirit.  In  any  properly  con- 
stituted community  the  man  who  distilled  and  sold  it 
would  be  executed,  instead  of  raised  to  the  peerage  as 
Teach  was  the  other  day.  It  is  this  stuff  that  makes 
murders  down  at  the  docks,  wrecks  little  homes  in 
Hackney,  casts  men  on  the  streets,  and  ships  on  the 
rocks,  and  souls  on  perdition. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Piper,  when  he  saw  these  prep- 
arations for  conviviality,  "  I  don't  know  what  gime 
you're  up  to,  but  I  give  you  warning " 

"  Sit  down  wid  you,"  said  Moriarty,  pressing  him 
down  on  the  middle  bucket  and  taking  his  seat  on  the 
bucket  to  the  right,  while  Andy  took  his  seat  on  the 
bucket  to  the  left.  "  Sit  down  wid  you,  and  listen  to 
raison.  Here's  a  glass  of  good  whisky  and  wather, 
and  here's  a  toast  I'm  goin'  to  give  you,  and  that's 
*  Good  luck  to  Garryowen ! ' '  He  swallowed  the  con- 


GARRYOWEN  289 

tents  of  the  glass,  wiped  his  mouth,  refilled  the  glass, 
and  passed  it  to  Andy. 

"  Good  luck  to  Garryowen ! "  said  Andy,  drinking  it 
off,  and  handing  the  empty  glass  back  to  Moriarty, 
who  refilled  it  and  held  it  towards  Piper. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  that  gentleman. 

"  Dhrink  it  off,"  commanded  Moriarty,  "  and  wish 
good  luck  to  Garryowen.  Sure,  it's  a  glass  of  good 
whisky  never  did  man  or  woman  harm  yet.  Off  wid 
it,"  continued  Moriarty,  in  the  tone  of  a  person  inciting 
a  child  to  take  a  dose  of  medicine.  "  And  it's  a  dif- 
ferent man  it  will  make  of  you." 

"  I  tell  you,  I  don't  drink,"  replied  the  unconvivial 
one.  "  If  you  choose  to  make  beasts  of  yourselves,  do 
so.  I  don't." 

"  Listen  to  him,  Andy,"  cried  Moriarty,  digging 
Piper  in  the  ribs  till  he  knocked  against  the  jockey. 

"Who're  you  jogglin'  aginst?"  cried  Andy,  return- 
ing the  dig  till  Piper  was  nearly  in  the  arms  of 
Moriarty. 

Mr.  Piper  tried  to  rise,  but  his  legs  were  twitched 
from  under  him  by  Moriarty,  and  down  he  sat  on  the 
bucket  again  with  a  bang. 

"You'll  be  breakin'  the  buckets  next,"  said 
Moriarty.  "  Why  can't  you  sit  aisy?  " 

"  I  see  your  gime,"  cried  the  bailiff. 

"  Faith,  then,  you  can  feel  it,  too,"  cried  Moriarty, 
and  next  moment  Mr.  Piper  was  on  his  back  on  the  truss 
of  already  prepared  straw  and  Moriarty  kneeling  on  his 
arms. 

"  Now  thin,  Andy,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies, 


290  GARRYOWEN 

"  fetch  me  the  funnel  and  the  bottle  and  the  glass,  and 
I'll  drinch  him." 

Andy  fetched  a  small  funnel  which  he  had  procured 
from  Mrs.  Driscoll,  and  Piper,  who  had  tried  to  shout, 
kept  silent  by  reason  of  fear  of  Moriarty's  thumb,  which 
was  applied  to  his  thyroid  cartilage. 

"  Mix  a  glass  of  grog,  and  not  too  strong,"  com- 
manded Moriarty.  "  That's  right.  Now,  thin,  open 
your  teeth,  you  omadhaun,  and  if  you  let  a  sound  out 
of  you  I'll  scrag  you.  It's  not  for  me  own  pleasure 
I'm  wastin'  good  dhrink  on  you,  but  to  save  the  masther. 
Stand  between  him  and  his  fortune,  would  you?  You 
owl  of  the  divil,  wid  your  sociality  and  your  jaw  about 
aiquil  rights!  It's  aiquil  rights  I'm  givin'  you  in  me 
bottle  of  whisky.  Down  wid  it,  and  if  you  let  a  sound 
out  of  you,  I'll  throttle  you." 

While  Moriarty  held  the  funnel  between  the  patient's 
teeth  and  induced  him  to  swallow,  Andy  gently  poured. 

With  the  skill  of  an  expert  chloroformist,  Moriarty 
held  his  head.  He  knew  his  patient's  constitution,  and 
he  knew  the  strength  of  the  medicine.  Helpless  intoxi- 
cation was  not  his  object;  his  game  was  deeper  than 
that. 

In  the  middle  of  the  third  glass  the  victim  began  to 
show  signs  of  merriment — real  merriment.  All  his 
anger  had  vanished.  Strange  to  say,  he  still  resisted, 
tossing  his  head  from  side  to  side,  as  much  as  he  was 
able,  but  all  the  time  he  was  laughing  as  though  he 
were  being  tickled. 

"He's  comin'  up  to  the  scratch,"  said  Moriarty. 
"  Aisy  does  it.  Let  him  be  for  a  minit,  for  we  have  to 


GARRYOWEN  291 

reckon  on  the  cowld  night  air,  and  I  want  him  to  keep 
his  pins.  Well,  Mr.  Piper,  and  how  are  you  feelin' 
now?" 

" Whatsh  your  name?"  cried  Piper,  sudden  anger 
seizing  him.  "  I'll  give  you  shomething.  Come  on !  " 

He  struck  out  with  his  foot,  and  sent  Andy  flying, 
bottle,  glass,  and  all.  Next  second,  his  legs  now  re- 
leased, he  landed  Moriarty  a  kick  in  the  face  that  would 
have  stunned  an  ordinary  man. 

"  Come  on !  "  cried  Piper  wildly  laughing,  still  on  his 
back  and  striking  out  with  his  feet.  "  Come  on !  One 
down,  t'other  on !  " 

"  He's  proper  and  fit  now,"  said  Moriarty,  his  face 
streaming  with  gore,  but  seemingly  utterly  oblivious 
of  the  fact.  "  Come  on,  and  we'll  run  him  down  to  the 
p'leece  office  before  the  fight's  out  of  him." 

He  rushed  in  on  the  resisting  one,  got  another  kick — 
this  time  in  the  stomach — and,  seizing  the  maniac  by 
the  collar  of  his  coat,  got  him  on  his  legs,  using  him  as 
gently  as  though  he  were  dealing  with  a  refractory 
child.  Another  man,  had  he  received  the  kicks  that 
Moriarty  had  received,  would  have  paid  them  back  in 
ill-treatment,  but  Moriarty  never  lost  his  temper,  and 
it  was  a  rule  of  honour  with  him  that  a  drunken  man 
should  be  treated  with  all  possible  tenderness  and  con- 
sideration. He  would  just  as  soon  have  struck  a 
priest,  a  woman,  or  a  child  as  a  man  in  liquor. 

Once  on  his  legs,  all  fight  seemed  to  die  out  of  Mr. 
Piper.  Wild  hilarity  and  attempts  at  song  took  the 
place  of  bellicosity.  Bad  language  also  came  to  the 
surface,  and  found  expression. 


292  GARRYOWEN 

"  He'll  do,"  said  Moriarty.  "  He'll  do.  Andy,  clip 
howld  of  his  other  arm.  Now,  then,  open  the  door, 
and  down  to  the  village  with  him.  The  thing  that's 
thrubblin'  me  is  he's  gone  undher  so  quick  that  maybe 
he's  only  shamming." 

"  Faith,"  said  Andy,  "  I  know  why  he's  gone  undher 
so  quick.  It's  be  raison  of  me  givin'  him  the  second 
glass  nate.  I  forgot  to  put  the  wather  in  it." 

Miss  Grimshaw,  who  had  been  unable  to  tear  herself 
away  from  the  window,  had  increased  her  powers  of 
observation  by  opening  the  sash.  She  heard  Moriarty's 
voice,  and  the  voices  of  the  others.  What  they  could 
be  doing  to  the  bailiff  was  quite  beyond  her  power  of 
imagination  to  discover. 

Then,  as  time  passed  on,  she  heard  laughter.  Piper 
was  laughing.  She  knew  the  voices  of  the  two  others 
too  well  to  make  a  mistake.  Such  long-continued 
laughter  she  had  never  heard  before.  Then  the  laugh- 
ter ceased,  and  she  heard  the  bailiffs  voice  crying  to 
the  others  to  come  on.  After  this  came  more  laughter 
and  snatches  of  song. 

Greatly  wondering,  she  waited  and  watched  till,  the 
door  of  the  loose-box  bursting  open,  Andy  and  Mor- 
iarty emerged,  supporting  a  drunken  man  between 
them. 

Then  she  understood  in  part. 

Fortunately  for  her  curiosity,  she  had  not  undressed, 
and,  catching  up  a  shawl,  she  wrapped  her  head  in  it, 
left  her  room,  and  crossed  the  hall  to  the  sitting-room, 
where  Mr.  French  and  Mr.  Dashwood,  who  had  not 
yet  gone  to  bed,  were  sitting  smoking. 


GARRYOWEN  295 

"  I've  found  out  Moriarty's  plan,"  said  Miss  Grim- 
shaw.  "  Come  out  on  the  verandah  and  I'll  show  you 
something.  But  don't  make  a  noise." 

She  opened  the  window  on  to  the  verandah,  and  the 
others  followed  her. 

The  bailiff  and  his  supporters  were  now  on  the  down- 
hill path  to  the  road,  they  and  their  shadows  very 
visible  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Look !  "  said  the  girl.     "  He's  the  middle  one." 

"  Why,  he's  drunk !  "  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 

"Mad  drunk,"  said  French.  "This  is  Moriarty's 
work.  And  he  a  teetotaler!  How  on  earth  did 
Moriarty  do  it?" 

"  I  heard  them  in  the  yard,"  said  the  girl.  "  They 
dragged  him  into  the  loose-box  next  to  the  one  The 
Cat's  in,  and  shut  the  door.  After  a  while,  I  heard  him 
laughing  and  singing — and  now,  look  at  him !  " 

"  After  them,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  "  and  let's  see 
what  they'll  do  with  him." 

He  led  the  way  down  the  hill.  When  they  reached 
the  road,  the  others  were  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
ahead.  The  wind  blowing  from  them  brought  the  songs 
and  shouting  of  the  convivial  one,  on  whom,  now,  the 
extra  stimulus  of  the  cold  night  air  was  acting. 

"  I've  seen  a  good  many  drunken  men,"  said  French, 
"but,  begad!  this  fellow  takes  the  cake.  Look,  he's 
trying  to  fight  now!  Now  they've  got  him  between 
them  again.  Come  on  and  let's  see  what  Moriarty  is 
going  to  do  with  him." 

They  followed  up  hill  to  the  village  street.  Here 
in  the  moonlight,  before  the  highly  respectable  cottage 


294  GARRYOWEN 

bearing  the  tin  sign  inscribed  "  County  Police,"  the  trio 
stopped,  Moriarty  clinging  to  his  charge  while  Andy 
rang  the  bell. 

Mr.  Boiler,  the  Crowsnest  constable,  had  not  yet 
started  on  his  night  rounds.  He  was  drinking  a  cup 
of  coffee  in  the  bedroom  upstairs  when  the  summons 
came.  Opening  the  window,  he  put  his  head  out. 

"  Who's  there?  "  asked  the  constable. 

"Dhrunken  man,"  said  Moriarty  from  the  road. 
"  I've  got  him  here.  He  called  at  The  Martens,  dead 
dhrunk,  and  'saulted  me.  Look  at  me  face.  Come 
down  wid  you  and  gaol  him,  or  he'll  tear  the  village  to 
pieces,  bad  luck  to  him !  " 

"  One  minute,"  said  Mr.  Boiler,  "  and  I'll  attend  to 
his  business  for  him." 

Next  moment  he  was  in  the  street,  where  Moriarty, 
with  a  deft  touch  on  the  adductor  tendons,  had  de- 
posited Mr.  Piper  on  his  back. 

"  Now  then,  now  then !  What's  all  this?  "  asked  the 
constable,  approaching  the  disciple  of  La  Savate. 

The  kick  on  the  knee-cap  which  the  constable  re- 
ceived made  him  assume  the  attitude  of  a  meditative 
stork  for  some  seconds.  Then  he  closed  with  his  prey. 

"  If  you  ax  me  what's  best  to  be  done,  sorr,"  said 
Moriarty  later  in  the  night,  as  he  stood  in  the  sitting- 
room  after  being  complimented  on  his  work,  "  I'd  have 
Mr.  Dashwood  go  over  to  Hollborough  in  the  morning, 
where  this  chap  will  be  had  before  the  magistrates,  and 
pay  the  fine.  It'll  be  a  matther  of  two  pounds,  sure, 
Boiler  tould  me,  and  fetch  Piper  back  here,  and  tell  him 


GARRYOWEN  295 

to  sit  aisy,  and  the  horse  will  be  back  afther  the  race. 
You  see,  sorr,  we've  got  the  weather  gauge  on  the  chap 
now.  If  the  men  that  employed  him  knew  he'd  been 
dhrunk  and  gaoled,  he'd  lose  his  job.  We'll  keep  it 
dark  for  him  if  he'll  keep  it  dark  about  the  horse, 

"  It's  not  a  plisint  job  for  Mr.  Dashwood  to  go  payin' 
the  fines  for  dhrunken  men,  but,  sure,  it's  all  in  the 
game.  And  if  you  plaze,  sorr,  I'm  thinkin*  it  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  thing  if  you  was  to  sit  down  now  and  write  a 
letther  to  Mr.  Lewis,  tellin'  him  the  bailiff  was  here  in 
possession,  and  that  the  money  would  be  paid  in  a  day 
or  two.  That  would  keep  him  aisy,  and  it  would  make 
it  more  natural  like  if  you  was  to  let  a  little  abuse  into 
it  and  say  you'd  been  very  hardly  thrated. 

"  No,  sorr,  I  won't  go  to  bed  to-night.  I'll  just  sit 
up  wid  the  horse.  Everything's  ready  now  for  getting 
him  in  the  thrain  to-morrow  mornin'.  Thank  you,  sorr, 
just  half  a  glass.  And  here's  good  luck  to  Garry- 
owen ! " 


CHAPTER   XXX 

MR.  GIVEEN,  on  his  enlargement,  had  returned  hot-foot 
to  London.  The  chicken-higgler's  cart  that  had  given 
him  a  lift  on  the  road  had  deposited  him  at  Blank- 
moor  Station,  where  he  had  managed  to  get  the  last 
train  up  to  town. 

Too  confused  and  shaken  up  with  his  adventures  to 
do  anything  that  night  he  had  repaired  to  Swan's 
Temperance  Hotel  in  the  Strand,  where  his  luggage 
was,  told  his  tale  to  the  landlady,  received  her  com- 
miserations, and  gone  to  bed. 

Next  morning,  at  ten  o'clock,  he  appeared  at  the 
office  of  Mr.  Lewis  in  Craven  Street. 

"  Is  Mr.  Lewis  in?  "  asked  Giveen. 

"What  name,  please?"  asked  the  clerk. 

"  Just  tell  him  a  gentleman  from  Ireland  wants  to 
see  him,"  replied  Giveen.  "  Tell  him  it's  on  important 
business  about  Mr.  French.  He'll  know." 

A  moment  later  he  found  himself  in  the  inner  office, 
before  a  desk  table,  at  which  an  elderly  gentleman  with 
grey  whiskers  was  opening  his  morning  letters. 

"  Mr.  Lewis?  "  said  Mr.  Giveen. 

Lewis  bowed. 

"  I've  come  to  you  about  a  matter  of  importance," 
said  Giveen.  "  You  sent  a  man  over  to  Ireland  to 
seize  the  goods  of  a  relation  of  mine — Michael  French, 
of  Drumgool  House." 

296 


GARRYOWEN  297 

"  I  did  not,"  said  Lewis.  "  My  agent  in  Dublin 
moved  in  the  matter." 

"  Well,  sure,  it's  all  one  and  the  same  thing.  French 
has  skedaddled.  He's  taken  his  horses  away,  and  you 
don't  know  his  address.  Come,  now,  isn't  that  the 
truth?" 

"Yes,  it  is.  By  any  chance,  do  you  know  his 
address?"" 

«  I  do." 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Lewis,  "  I  must  ask  you  for  it" 

"  Oh,  must  you,  faith?  And  how  are  you  to  make 
me  tell  you?  See  here,  now — a  bargain  is  a  bargain, 
and  I'll  sell  you  it  for  a  fiver." 

Half  an  hour  later  he  left  the  office  of  Mr.  Lewis  with 
the  promise  of  a  five-pound  note  should  his  information 
prove  correct  and  the  satisfaction  of  having  revenged 
himself  on  his  kinsman. 

He  turned  into  O'Shee's  in  the  Strand.  Though  he 
only  drank  gingerbeer  and  soda-water  he  frequented 
O'Shee's,  finding  there  compatriots  whom  he  could  bore 
with  his  conversation. 

He  had  arranged  to  return  to  Ireland  on  the  16th, 
and  on  the  14th,  the  night  before  the  City  and  Subur- 
ban, wandering  into  O'Shee's,  he  fell  into  conversation 
with  an  affable  gentleman  adorned  with  rings,  whose 
name,  given  in  the  first  few  moments  of  conversation, 
was  Paddy  Welsh. 

"  So  you're  off  to  the  Ould  Counthry  on  Thurs- 
day "  said  Mr.  Walsh.  "  And  what  are  you  doin*  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Giveen. 


298  GARRYOWEN 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Welsh,  "  you're  just  the  bhoy 
afther  me  own  heart,  and  I'll  give  you  a  thrate  you'll 
remimber  to  your  dyin'  day." 

"  And  what's  that?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  I'll  take  you  down  to  the  City  and  Suburban  wid 
me,  and  give  you  a  dinner  and  do  you  fine.  Whisht, 
now,  and  don't  be  tellin'  any  one !  Do  you  know  what 
me  thrade  is?  Well,  I'm  a  bookmaker.  You'll  see  me 
make,  maybe,  two  hundred  pounds  to-morrow.  I'm  not 
wan  of  the  big  bookies ;  I  just  dale  wid  the  ordinary 
men ;  ha'ff-crowns  and  five  shillin's  is  what  I  mostly  take. 
Whisht,  now,  and  listen  to  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  what 
you  can  do.  Faith,  it's  an  idea  that  has  just  struck 
me.  Would  you  like  to  earn  a  ten-pound  note  ?  " 

"Faith,  wouldn't  I?" 

"Well,  you  can  come  down  and  act  as  me  friend. 
Now,  listen  to  me.  We'll  take  our  stand,  meself  on  a 
tub  and  you  beside  me.  I'll  take  the  bets,  and  you'll 
see  the  five  shillin's  and  ha'ff-crowns  pourin'  in ;  then, 
when  the  race  is  begun,  I'll  lave  you  to  mind  the  tub 
while  I  run  round  to  see  the  clerk  of  the  course." 

"  And  what  will  you  want  to  see  him  for?  " 

"  Whisht,  now,"  said  Mr.  Walsh,  "  and  I'll  tell  you. 
But  you  must  swear  never  to  split." 

"  Oh,  you  may  be  easy  on  that." 

"  Well,  he  and  me  is  hand  in  glove.  He  lets  me  into 
all  the  saycrits,  and  I  give  him  ha'ff  profits  on  the  win- 
nin's.  I'll  tell  him  how  me  bets  lie,  d'you  see?  And 
afther  the  race,  when  the  jockeys  come  to  be  weighed 
in,  he'll  kibosh  the  weights  so  that  the  horse  that  wins 
will  be  disqualified,  if  it  suits  me  book.  You  tould  me 


GARRYOWEN  299 

you  knew  nothin'  of  racin's,  so  I  can't  'xplain  the  in- 
thricacies  of  the  thing  to  you,  but  that's  how  it  lies. 
Then  I'll  come  back  to  the  tub  to  find  you,  and  you 
and  me  will  go  and  have  a  good  dinner,  and  there'll  be 
a  ten-pound  note  for  you." 

"  There's  nothing  against  the  law  in  all  that,  is 
there?  "  asked  the  cautious  Mr.  Giveen. 

"  Law !  Of  course,  there's  not,  for  you  and  me.  If 
the  clerk  of  the  course  chooses  to  earn  an  honest  penny 
by  doin'  what  he  chooses,  it's  his  lookout ;  no  one  can 
touch  him  either  but  the  Jockey  Club,  and  they  daren't 
say  a  word,  for  they're  all  in  it.  Why,  man  alive, 
what's  the  Jockey  Club  for  but  to  jockey  the  public  out 
of  their  money?  Afther  every  big  race  they  hold  a 
meetin'  and  divide  the  profits;  as  much  as  a  hundred 
thousand  sometimes  is  split  up  between  them,  the  black- 
guyards !  Where  did  you  say  you  was  stayin'? 
Shepherd's  Temp'rance  Hotel?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  I'll  call  for  you  in  the  mornin'  and  take  you 
with  me.  I'll  pay  the  thrain,  for  you  needn't  bother  a 
bit  about  money  when  you  are  along  with  me." 

"  Right,"  said  Mr.  Giveen. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  City  and  Suburban  morning  broke  fine;  one  of 
those  April  mornings  fresh  and  sweet  as  spring  herself. 
Mr.  French,  staying  with  Major  Lawson  at  Badminton 
House,  just  outside  Epsom,  had  awakened  from  a  night 
of  dreams,  feeling  pretty  much  as  a  man  may  be  sup- 
posed to  feel  who  expects  the  hangman  as  an  after- 
breakfast  visitor. 

He  awoke  from  sleep  with  the  dead  certainty  of  fail- 
ure upon  him.  Months  and  months  of  anxiety  had 
passed,  obstacle  after  obstacle  had  been  overcome. 
The  last  obstacle  was  now  before  him — the  race.  That, 
he  felt,  was  insurmountable,  and  for  no  special  reason. 
Garryowen  had  arrived  safe  at  Lawson's  stables ;  the 
horse  was  in  the  pink  of  condition ;  Andy  was  fit  and 
well ;  the  favourite  had  been  scratched  two  days  before ; 
several  good  horses  had  been  scratched ;  the  betting  list 
had  altered  considerably  since  we  referred  to  it  last, 
and  Wheel  of  Fortune  was  now  favourite,  White  Moth 
second.  These  new  conditions  were  not  unfavourable 
to  the  Irish  horse ;  all  the  same,  the  sense  of  coming  dis- 
aster weighed  on  French. 

Before  breakfast  he  visited  the  stables  with  Lawson 
who  had  nothing  running  in  the  race,  and  who  was 
therefore  free  to  admire  with  an  un jaundiced  eye  the 
excellencies  of  Garryowen.  Andy  had  been  taken  over 
the  course  the  day  before,  and  had  studied  its  peculiari- 

300 


GARRYOWEN  301 

ties,  receiving  sage  advice  from  Lawson  and  his  mas- 
ter, all  of  which  he  listened  to  with  an  appearance  of 
respect,  but  which  was  scarcely  of  much  profit  to  him, 
as  his  keen  eye  and  judgment  could  give  him,  unaided, 
the  ins  and  outs  of  any  racing  track  better  than  the 
oldest  user  and  frequenter  of  it. 

After  breakfast  Mr.  French  went  out  to  smoke  a 
cigar  and  think  things  over;  Lawson  seeing  the  nerv- 
ousness and  agitation  of  his  friend  had  promised  to 
look  after  everything  and  act  as  second  in  this  duel 
with  Fortune. 

The  Downs  even  now  showed  an  animated  appear- 
ance. A  few  hours  more  and  the  great  race-trains 
would  pour  their  thousands  upon  thousands  to  swell  the 
throng.  Gipsies  and  tramps,  pickpockets,  all  sorts  of 
undesirables  had  camped  on  the  Downs  or  tramped  from 
London.  Cocoanut-shies  were  going  up,  costers'  bar- 
rows arriving,  and  gingerbeer  stalls  materialising  them- 
selves. Just  outside  the  house  Mr.  French  met 
Moriarty. 

"  The  horse  is  all  right,  Moriarty?  "  asked  French. 

"  Yes,  sorr,  right  as  rain  and  fresh  as  paint.  You 
needn't  be  unaisy,  sorr.  Barrin'  the  visitation  of 
Heaven,  he'll  win." 

"  If  Garryowen  wins,"  said  French,  "  I'll  win  sixty- 
five  thousand  pounds,  and  if  he  doesn't,  begad,  I'm 
beggared." 

"  He's  nothin'  to  fear,  sorr,  but  Wheel  of  Fortune," 
said  Moriarty.  "  I've  been  lookin'  and  listenin*  and 
talkin'  ever  since  I  came  down,  and  it's  my  opinion 
there's  nothin'  here  to  give  its  heels  to  Garryowen,  and 


302  GARRYOWEN 

if  you'll  let  me  give  you  a  bit  of  advice,  sorr,  it's  this : 
Go  for  a  walk,  and  don't  bother  your  head  about  the 
matther.  Major  Lawson  is  lookin'  afther  every  thin', 
and  me  and  Andy  will  pull  everythin'  through." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  French.  "  You'll  do  every- 
thing you  can.  Well,  there's  no  use  worrying.  I'll  do 
what  you  say." 

He  took  Moriarty's  horny  hand  and  shook  it.  Then 
turning,  he  walked  off  over  the  Downs. 

It  was  twenty  minutes  or  so  before  the  race.  A  hun- 
dred thousand  people  lined  the  course  and  filled  the  air 
with  the  hum  of  a  British  crowd  on  a  race  day,  which 
is  different  from  the  sound  emitted  by  any  other  crowd 
on  earth. 

Mr.  French,  whose  nervous  agitation  had  utterly 
vanished,  was  entering  the  paddock  when  someone 
touched  his  arm.  It  was  Bobby  Dashwood. 

"Hullo!"  said  French.  "Good!  When  did  you 
arrive?  " 

"  Last  train,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood.  "I  say  it's  all 
right.  I  paid  that  chap's  fine,  and  lugged  him  back 
to  The  Martens,  and  he's  there  now,  as  peaceable  as 
pie,  waiting  for  the  horse  to  come  back." 

"  Heavens,  Dashwood,"  said  French,  "  inside  this 
hour,  I'll  be  either  a  rich  man  or  broke  to  the  world, 
and  I  feel  just  as  cool  as  if  I  hadn't  a  penny  on  the 
race.  Funny,  that,  isn't  it?  " 

«  Not  a  bit,"  said  Bobby.  "  I  always  feel  that  way 
myself  when  it  comes  to  the  scratch.  By  Jove,  there's 
Garryowen,  and  isn't  he  looking  fit ! " 


GARRYOWEN  303 

"  Don't  let  us  go  near  him,"  said  French.  "  We've 
got  him  here,  but  I  feel  if  I  go  near  him  my  bad  luck 
may  stick  on  him.  Come  into  the  ring." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  ring,  followed  by  Dashwood. 
Lawson  was  just  leaving  the  ring.  "  It's  twenty-five 
to  one  against  Garryowen  now,"  said  he.  "  They've 
sniffed  him,  and,  begad,  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  he  started 
ten  to  one.  You  can't  grumble,  French ;  you're  having 
a  run  for  your  money.  Sixty-five  to  one  you  told  me 
you  got  on  at.  I've  just  put  seven  hundred  on  at 
twenty-five,  so  that's  my  opinion  of  Garryowen.  Now 
stick  here  and  don't  bother.  I'm  going  to  have  a  word 
with  your  trainer.  Leave  everything  to  me  and  him, 
and  stick  here ;  but  don't  put  any  more  on,  you  mustn't 
pull  down  your  average." 

"  Right,"  said  French,  and  Lawson  left  him. 

"  I  haven't  any  average  to  pull  down,"  said  Mr. 
Dashwood.  "  Haven't  a  penny  on ;  but  I  captured 
twenty  pounds  yesterday,  and  here  goes." 

He  approached  Sam  Collins,  a  bookmaker  beknown 
to  him,  and,  lo  and  behold !  Garryowen's  price  was  now 
fifteen  to  one,  and  at  that  he  put  his  twenty  pounds  on. 

"  Three  hundred  will  be  useful,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood. 
"  Gad,  I  wish  I'd  been  here  sooner,  and  I  might  have 
got  on  at  twenty-five  to  one.  However,  there's  no  use 
in  grumbling.  Look !  there's  the  numbers  going  up !  " 

French  watched  the  numbers  going  up. 

'*  Sixteen  runners,"  said  Dashwood. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  replied  French.     "  Sixteen,  it  is." 

"  Garryowen  is  Number  7,"  said  Dashwpod. 

"Look! "said  French. 


304.  GARRYOWEN 

The  horses  were  leaving  the  paddock.  Wheel  of  For- 
tune was  first  out — a  bad  omen,  according  to  racing 
men ;  after  Wheel  of  Fortune  came  White  Moth,  Royal 
George,  Satiety,  and  Garryowen.  They  were  a  beauti- 
ful picture  in  the  bright  April  sunlight. 

"  It's  Wheel  of  Fortune  or  Garryowen,"  said  Dash- 
wood,  who  was  half-mad  with  excitement.  "  French, 
I'd  put  my  last  penny  on  Garryowen,  but  the  Wheel's 
a  wonder.  Ain't  they  beauties,  the  pair  of  them !  Make 
the  rest  look  like  dowagers !  " 

French  contemplated  his  horse  as  it  galloped  up  the 
course  following  Wheel  of  Fortune.  He  could  not  but 
admire  the  favourite,  but  at  the  moment  Garryowen 
dominated  his  every  thought,  and  the  extraordinary 
thing  was  he  had  almost  forgotten  money  in  connec- 
tion with  the  race ;  a  mad  longing  to  win  for  the  sake 
of  winning  possessed  his  whole  soul.  It  pleased  him 
Garryowen  was  so  well  matched.  To  beat  Wheel  of 
Fortune  would  be  a  triumph. 

And  now  that  adjustment  of  prices  which  always 
takes  place  just  before  starting  was  evidenced  in  the 
price  of  Garryowen.  "Listen!"  cried  Dashwood. 
"  The  price  has  gone  to  ten  to  one.  Listen ! "  The 
roar  of  the  ring  flared  up,  the  horses  were  now  at  the 
starting-post,  caracoling  and  curveting. 

French  saw  Andy's  black-and-yellow  jacket  and  the 
purple-and-white  of  Lofts  on  Wheel  of  Fortune.  Would 
the  flag  never  fall?  A  false  start,  another  false  start, 
and  they  were  off!  The  purple  jacket  of  White  Moth 
was  to  the  fore  three  full  lengths ;  after  White  Moth 
came  Satiety  and  Garryowen.  Garryowen  was  going 


GARRYOWEN  305 

as  a  cloud  shadow  goes,  sweeping  and  without  effort ; 
with  him,  and  drawing  slightly  ahead,  went  Wheel  of 
Fortune. 

They  were  racing  along  the  rise  now.  Satiety  had 
drawn  well  to  the  fore,  and  now,  of  a  sudden,  with 
kaleidoscopic  swiftness  and  effect,  the  field  had 
changed,  and  Satiety  was  no  longer  to  the  fore.  White 
Moth  had  fallen  away,  the  field  was  fanning  out,  Wheel 
of  Fortune  and  Garryowen  were  leading,  Dragon  Fly, 
a  rank  outsider,  had  drawn  up  to  Garryowen,  and  the 
whole  moving  cloud  of  horses  were  making  for  Tatten- 
ham  Corner,  the  Cape  Horn  of  Luck,  where  so  many 
a  fortune  has  been  wrecked. 

Wheel  of  Fortune  was  going  superbly,  and  as  they 
drew  on  the  corner  a  roar  like  the  roar  of  a  sea 
surged  up  and  down  the  course.  As  they  swept  round 
the  bend,  Garryowen  was  close  on  the  rails,  Dragon 
Fly  had  drawn  wide  and  was  losing  ground,  Satiety 
was  moving  up  as  though  pushed  by  some  unseen 
finger,  and  as  they  swept  down  the  hill  only  some  six 
horses  were  left  with  a  chance. 

Down  the  hill  the  pace  was  tremendous,  heart- 
catching,  sublime,  if  speed  can  have  sublimity.  Wheel 
of  Fortune,  halfway  down,  shot  forward,  and  again 
the  roar,  like  the  roar  of  a  tormented  sea,  burst  out, 
and  rushed  up  the  course,  a  wave  of  sound,  and  died 
away  and  rose  again. 

"  Look !  look ! "  cried  Dashwood,  with  his  eyes  glued 
to  his  glasses.  The  horses  had  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  hill  and  beyond,  Satiety  had  fallen  back.  The 
struggle  was  now  between  Garryowen  and  Wheel  of 


306  GARRYOWEN 

Fortune.  Wheel  of  Fortune  was  a  length  ahead,  and 
the  distance  was  shortening — shortening — shortening. 

"  They're  running  neck  and  neck,"  yelled  Dash- 
wood.  "Look!  they're  nearly  on  the  judges'  box. 
Look !  He'll  win !  Garryowen  for  ever !  " 

"You  can't  tell,"  cried  French.  "You  can't  tell 
from  here.  It's  a  deceiving  course.  But  I  believe  he 
will.  Garryowen  for  ever !  " 

On  the  hill,  away  down  the  course,  from  Tatter- 
sail's  ring — itself  a  little  hell  of  sound — now  rose  an 
outburst,  one  long,  never-ceasing  roar.  A  snow  of 
waving  handkerchiefs  made  the  stands  look  as  if  beset 
by  a  million  white  butterflies. 

"  Wheel  of  Fortune  wins !  Wheel  of  Fortune  wins ! " 

Flash!  They  are  past  the  winning-post,  and  the 
race  is  ended. 

"  Look !     Look !  "  cried  Dashwood. 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  the  winner  from  the  ring. 
Till  the  number  went  up  the  two  men  stood  eyes  fixed 
on  the  man  at  the  board. 

"  Seven ! "  cried  French  as  the  number  went  up,  and 
in  the  voice  of  a  person  who  sees  what  he  cannot  be- 
lieve. 

"Hurroo!"  cried  Dashwood.  "I  told  you  he 
would!  Garryowen  for  ever!" 

Mr.  Giveen  and  his  new-found  friend,  Mr.  Welsh, 
arrived  at  Epsom  by  an  early  train  and  took  up  a 
position  near  the  ring.  Giveen  was  quite  unconscious 
that  his  kinsman  French  had  entered  Garryowen  for 
the  City  and  Suburban.  He  knew  that  the  horse  had 


GARRYOWEN  307 

been  destined  to  run  in  some  race,  but  he  knew  as 
little  about  race-meetings  as  bazaars,  and  he  never 
even  glanced  at  the  race-card  which  Mr.  Welsh  gave 
him.  He  was  entirely  taken  up  by  the  crowd,  and 
half  addled  by  the  noise  around  him. 

Mr.  Welsh  had  been  joined  at  the  station  by  a  very 
evil  and  flashy-looking  individual  who  frankly  called 
himself  Lazarus,  perhaps  because  it  would  have  been 
a  waste  of  time  and  energy  to  have  called  himself  any- 
thing else;  and  Mr.  Welsh,  having  introduced  Mr. 
Lazarus  to  Mr.  Giveen,  the  trio  proceeded  to  the 
course. 

Here  Mr.  Welsh,  who  was  dressed  for  the  occasion 
in  the  most  amazing  check  suit  that  ever  left  Petticoat- 
lane,  took  his  stand  on  a  tub  provided  by  Mr.  Laz- 
arus, and  proceeded  to  address  the  crowd  in  a  lan- 
guage that  was  Greek  to  Mr.  Giveen.  But  the  effect 
of  Mr.  Welsh's  words  was  quite  understandable  to  him. 
Individuals  came  forward,  one  after  another,  talked 
more  Greek  to  Paddy  Welsh,  received  coloured  tickets 
from  Mr.  Lazarus,  and  handed  him  money,  which  he 
deposited  in  a  bag  by  his  side. 

As  time  wore  on,  and  the  moment  of  starting  drew 
near,  Mr.  Welsh  on  the  tub  became  less  a  man  than 
a  volcano  emitting  sound  instead  of  lava,  and  the  more 
Mr.  Welsh  shouted,  the  more  individuals  were  sucked 
towards  him,  and  the  more  money  poured  into  the  bag 
of  the  perspiring  Lazarus. 

All  at  once  the  crowd  surged  away.  A  shout  filled 
the  air,  "They're  off!"  and  Mr.  Welsh  jumped  from 
his  perch. 


308  GARRYOWEN 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Welsh,  "I'm  off  wid  me  friend 
Lazarus  to  see  the  clerk  of  the  course.  Here's  the 
bagful  of  money  for  you  to  keep ;  and,  mind,  we  thrust 
you.  We'll  be  back  in  two  minits.  You  stick  here, 
and  wait  for  us." 

Next  moment,  he  and  the  Israelite  had  vanished, 
leaving  the  luckless  Giveen,  bag  in  hand,  standing  by 
the  tub. 

"  They're  off  \ "  These  words  often  include  in  their 
meaning  bipeds  as  well  as  quadrupeds  on  City  and 
Suburban  day. 

Giveen,  with  the  bag  in  his  hand,  was  torn  by  con- 
flicting emotions.  Suppose  Paddy  Welsh  and  Mr. 
Lazarus  could  not  find  him  again  because  of  the  crowd? 
Then  what  would  he  do  with  the  money  in  the  bag? 
Faith,  what  else  but  take  it  back  to  London,  and  as 
he  was  off  to  Ireland  next  day,  what  else  could  he  do 
but  take  the  bag  with  him? 

His  mind  played  with  Cupidity  and  Theft  as  a 
puppy  plays  with  its  mates.  He  would  not  steal  the 
money,  but  he  would  stick  to  it  if  the  others,  by  any 
chance,  missed  him.  And  he  determined  to  give  them 
every  chance  of  so  doing.  He  would  wait  a  decent 
time — say,  two  or  three  minutes — after  the  race  was 
over,  and  then  wander  back  to  the  station.  Besides, 
there  was  ten  pounds  due  to  him.  Paddy  had  prom- 
ised him  ten  pounds  anyway. 

Engaged  in  these  thoughts,  he  scarcely  heard  the 
shouting  around  him  as  the  horses  were  sweeping 
round  Tattenham  Corner. 

The  desire  to  look  at  the  money  in  the  bag  now 


GARRYOWEN  309 

Came  on  him  irresistibly,  and,  opening  the  clasp,  he 
peeped  in. 

Pebbles  and  pieces  of  brick  met  his  gaze  and  con- 
founded him. 

What  on  earth  did  it  mean  ?  Then  he  guessed.  He 
had  been  done! 

Paddy  and  Mr.  Lazarus  had  levanted  with  the 
money.  They  must  have  had  two  bags,  and  substi- 
tuted this  one.  Withered  leaves  and  desolation!  He 
would  never  get  his  ten  pounds  now.  That  was  why 
they  had  bolted.  Instead  of  flinging  the  accursed 
bag  away  and  bolting  himself,  the  unfortunate  man, 
who  knew  nothing  of  welshers  and  his  own  abominable 
position,  slung  the  bag  over  his  shoulder  by  its  long 
strap,  and,  to  complete  the  business,  mounted  on  the 
tub.  From  this  position  he  scanned  the  crowd  eagerly, 
looking  for  the  defaulters. 

He  did  not  see  them.  He  saw  a  wide  expanse  of 
ape-like  and  fatuous  faces ;  every  face  was  adorned  by 
a  wide-open  mouth,  and  every  mouth  was  yelling. 

"Wheel  of  Fortune!    Wheel  of  Fortune!" 

Ten  thousand  voices  made  the  sky  ring  with  the 
shout.  Garryowen,  leading  by  a  neck,  was  passing 
the  winning-post,  but  the  crowd,  deceived  by  the  course 
and  their  own  desire,  fancied  still  the  favourite  was 
the  winner. 

Then  the  numbers  went  up,  and  the  shouts  were  not 
so  triumphant. 

GARRYOWEN 1 

WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE 2 

SATIETT.  . ,  .3 


310  GARRYOWEN 

"  Here  you  are.  Ten  shillings.  I  backed  Wheel  of 
Fortune  for  a  place  two  to  one !  " 

"What  are  you  saying?  "  said  Mr.  Giveen,  tearing 
his  eyes  from  the  course  and  looking  down  at  a  youth 
with  a  weak  mouth,  a  bowler  hat,  and  a  screaming 
check  suit,  who  was  holding  a  pink  card  in  his  hand, 
and  addressing  him. 

"  I  want  my  money.'* 

"  I  haven't  got  your  money.  I'm  lookin'  for  a  big 
man  with  a  red  face  and  a " 

"  Here  you  are.  Fifteen  bob.  Satiety  for  a 
place." 

"  Here  you  are.  Forty-five  half-crowns  for  Garry- 
owen." 

"  Go  to  blazes  with  you ! "  shouted  Mr.  Giveen  to 
the  ring  of  individuals  surrounding  his  tub  and  de- 
manding their  money.  "  Who  are  you  taking  me 
for?" 

"  He's  got  the  bag,"  shouted  one  voice. 

"  He  was  with  the  other  chaps,"  shouted  another. 

"Welsher!"  cried  a  third,  and  at  the  last  cry  Mr. 
Giveen  was  off  his  tub  and  being  hustled.  The  bag 
was  plucked  from  him  and  opened. 

Then  the  real  business  began,  and  where  the  police 
came  from  it  would  be  impossible  to  say,  but  they 
were  only  in  time  to  save  Mr.  Giveen's  shirt  and 
trousers.  His  coat  and  waistcoat  and  hat  had  van- 
ished utterly  and  like  smoke  when  four  stalwart  con- 
stables surrounded  him  and  began  to  fight  for  his 
life.  Several  other  welshers  in  the  neighbourhood  had 
done  their  business  and  got  clean  away;  the  crowd 


GARRYOWEN  Sll 

was  in  a  nasty  temper,  for  they  had  lost  over  the 
favourite,  and  the  gods,  with  a  certain  poetic  justice, 
had  offered  up  Giveen  as  a  dripping  roast  to  the  fury 
of  the  people. 

"  Pull  him  in  pieces !  " 

"  Duck  him ! "  (There  was  not  a  pond  within 
miles.) 

"  Jump  on  him !  " 

"Down  with  the  police!" 

"Welsher!" 

"Look!"  cried  Dashwood. 

French,  half  delirious  with  delight,  French,  the  win- 
ner of  a  big  fortune,  to  say  nothing  of  the  stakes  and 
the  glory,  was  being  led  from  the  ring  by  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  when  they  came  across  a  maelstrom  of  howling 
humanity,  amid  which,  like  rocks,  stood  forth  the  hel- 
mets of  the  constables. 

"  It's  a  welsher,  poor  devil !  "  cried  French.  "  The 
police  have  him.  Hi!  I  say — by  heavens!  it's 
Giveen ! " 

He  had  caught  a  glimpse  for  a  moment  of  the  face 
of  his  cousin.  The  next  he  was  in  amid  the  throng, 
helping  the  police. 

"Michael!"  yelled  the  half-naked  one.  "Lend  us 
a  hand,  or  I'll  be  torn  in  bits.  Musha!  listen  to  the 
devils!  Help!" 

Next  moment  French  was  knocked  aside.  Fourteen 
constables  had  charged  the  crowd  like  a  wedge,  and 
Giveen  was  surrounded  and  safe,  and  being  marched 
off  to  the  lock-up. 

"  Did  ever  a   man    see   a   thing  like   that ! "   cried 


3l£  GARRYOWEN 

French.  "  After  winning  the  race  and  all  to  have  a 
disgrace  like  this  fall  on  me ! " 

"  Come  on,"  said  Dashwood.  "  You  can  go  to  the 
police-station  after  you  have  seen  the  horse.  The 
bounder  is  all  right  now.  And  serve  him  jolly  well 
right !  It's  some  mistake.  He'd  never  have  the  brains 
to  try  to  welsh  people.  Come  on." 

Two  hours  later  Mr.  French,  Major  Lawson,  and 
Mr.  Dashwood,  having  celebrated  the  victory  in  cham- 
pagne cup,  drove  up  to  the  Epsom  police-station.  The 
Major  made  himself  known,  and  obtained  permission 
for  Mr.  French  to  interview  his  relative. 

Mr.  Giveen  was  seated  in  a  police  cell  with  a  police 
blanket  over  his  shoulders. 

"  Well,  there  you  are !  "  said  French.  "  And  a  nice 
disgrace  to  me  and  the  family!  What  brought  you 
down  here  at  all?  Do  you  know  what  you'll  get  for 
this?  Six  months,  if  you  get  an  hour." 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  God!"  said  Giveen.  "Sure,  I 
don't  know  what's  been  happening  to  me  at  all,  at  all. 
What  have  I  done  that  you  should  all  be  going  on 
at  me  like  this?" 

"What  have  you  done?"  cried  French.  "You've 
betrayed  me  to  Lewis,  you  scoundrel!  That's  what 
you've  done,  sorrow  mend  you!  You  came  sneaking 
down  to  Crowsnest  to  get  my  address.  You're  a  bad, 
black-hearted  beast,  that's  what  you  are,  and  it's  glad 
I  am  to  think  you'll  spend  the  next  six  months,  or 
maybe  the  next  year,  picking  oakum  or  dancing  on 
the  treadmill.  Come  now  and  tell  the  whole  truth. 
What  have  you  been  doing?  " 


GARRYOWEN  313 

Urged  to  the  tale,  Mr.  GIveen  told  all  about  Paddy 
Welsh  and  Mr.  Lazarus,  French  listening  and  scarcely 
able  to  contain  his  merriment. 

«  Paddy  Welsh !  "  said  he.  "  Oh,  faith,  that  makes 
it  worse  and  worse!  Oh,  faith,  you've  done  for  your- 
self now,  and  it's  maybe  two  years  you'll  get.  Now, 
listen  to  me,  and  I'll  give  you  a  chance.  If  you'll 
promise  me  to  go  back  to  Ireland  by  the  next  train, 
I'll  talk  to  the  magistrates  to-morrow  morning,  and 
I'll  tell  them  you're  my  relation  and  that  you're  a 
fool.  You  can  tell  them  what  you've  told  me,  and 
maybe,  backed  by  my  word,  they'll  believe  you.  Do 
you  understand  me?" 

"  I  do." 

"Will  you  go  back  to  Ireland?" 

« I  will." 

"  And  never  interfere  in  my  affairs  again  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  me  oath  to  that." 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  stay  here  all  night,  for  they 
won't  let  you  out  till  you've  been  before  the  magis- 
trates. There's  no  use  in  going  on  like  that ;  here 
you'll  have  to  stay,  and  when  you  come  before  the 
magistrates  in  the  morning " 

"  Sure,  and  I'll  pretend  to  be  soft,"  said  Mr. 
Giveen. 

"  You  needn't  pretend  at  all,"  said  Mr.  French. 

He  left  the  cell  and  heard  with  a  deep  satisfaction 
the  cell  door  close  upon  the  prisoner;  then  he  drove 
back  to  Badminton  House  with  his  companions. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Mr.  Dashwood  drew  him  into 
the  smoking-room,  which  was  deserted. 


814  GARRYOWEN 

"  I  sent  that  wire  to  Miss  Grimshaw,"  said  Mr. 
Dashwood,  "  telling  her  that  Garryowen  has  won." 

"  That's  right,"  said  French. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  "  I'm  just  going 
to  write  to  her.  We  won't  be  able  to  get  back  to  The 
Martens  till  the  day  after  to-morrow,  with  this  Giveen 
business  on  hand,  so  I'm  going  to  write  to  her  and 
tell  her  straight  out  that — that,  well,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  that  I  want  her  to  marry  me.  I'm  going  to  tell 
her  that  she  knows  me  now  as  well  as  ever  she'll  know 
me,  and  that  if  she  doesn't  like  the  business,  I'm  game, 
and  can  take  her  answer  and  still  be  friends.  We'll 
all  be  friends,  whatever  happens,  she  and  I  and  you; 
but  I  think  it's  best  to  make  the  position  clear  as  soon 
as  possible,  for  we  can't  go  on  like  this.  And  a  letter 
is  the  best  way  to  do  it." 


CHAPTER   XXXH 

"  YOU'BE  right,"  said  French.  "  Faith,  the  horse  has 
nearly  driven  everything  else  out  of  my  mind.  It's  a 
queer  business  the  way  that  girl  come  to  my  house  and 
saved  my  fortune.  I  tell  you  straight,  she  put  the 
come'ither  on  me  so  that  I'd  follow  her  through  the 
black  bog  itself,  if  she  beckoned  me,  with  both  eyes 
shut.  She's  a  jewel,  begad,  she's  a  jewel!  Look,  now, 
at  what  she's  done  for  me — saved  and  scraped,  put  me 
on  an  allowance  of  pocket-money — she  did  that — kept 
the  house  together;  and  it  was  she  put  the  idea  of 
taking  the  horse  away  from  Drumgool  into  my  head. 
Then,  again,  only  for  her  you  would  never  have  come 
about  the  place,  and  what  have  you  done?  Why, 
you've  saved  me  twice  and  three  times  over.  My  dear 
boy,"  burst  out  French,  seizing  Mr.  Dashwood's  hand, 
"  it's  you  that's  been  the  making  of  me,  for  if  you 
hadn't  nobbled  that  black  beast  of  a  Giveen,  I'd  have 
been  done  for  entirely,  and  I  hope  she'll  have  you  and 
make  you  happy." 

"  It's  all  a  toss  up,"  said  Mr.  Dashwood,  as  he  wrung 
French's  hand.  "  You  never  know  what  a  woman  will 
do,  and,  I  tell  you  this,  if  she  chucks  me,  and  if  you — 
if  you — well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  if  you  marry  her, 
I'll  forget  I  ever  cared  for  her,  and  we'll  all  be  friends 
just  as  we've  always  been." 

"  You  say  you  are  going  to  write  to  her?  " 
315 


316  GARRYOWEN 

"  Yes.    I'm  going  to  write  now." 
"  Well,  then,"  said  French,  "  I'll  do  the  same  and 
write  to  her  myself." 

On  the  morning  of  the  13th,  when  the  men  had  de- 
parted, Mr.  French  for  Epsom,  with  the  horse,  and 
Mr.  Dashwood  to  Hollborough  to  bail  out  the  bailiff, 
Miss  Grimshaw  found  herself  alone  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  many  months,  lonely.  The  society  of  women 
can  never  make  up  to  a  woman  for  the  society  of  men, 
and  the  society  of  men  can  never  make  up  to  a  man  for 
the  society  of  women.  French  and  Dashwood  had  taken 
away  a  genial  something  with  them;  the  place  seemed 
deserted. 

She  had  grown  fond  of  them  both,  extremely  fond 
of  them,  and  if  she  had  cross-questioned  herself  on  the 
subject,  she  could  not  have  discovered,  I  think,  which 
man  she  cared  for  most  as  a  companion.  Bobby  Dash- 
wood  had  youth  on  his  side,  and  youth  appeals  to 
youth ;  but  then  French  had  experience — though  it  had 
never  done  him  much  good — and  personality.  There 
was  a  lot  of  sunlight  about  Michael  French;  one  felt 
better  for  his  presence,  and,  though  he  would  knock  a 
man  down  for  two  pins,  though  he  made  sport  out  of 
debt  and  debts  over  sport,  and  drank  whisky  enough  to 
shock  the  modern  tea-and-toast  and  barley-water  man, 
he  was  a  Christian  when  it  came  to  practice,  and  a 
friend  whom  no  disaster  could  alienate. 

I  cannot  help  lingering  over  him,  for  he  belongs  to 
a  race  of  men  who  are  growing  fewer  in  an  age  when 
coldness  and  correctness  of  character  veil,  without  in 


GARRYOWEN  317 

the  least  diminishing,  the  essential  brutality  and  sav- 
agery of  man. 

Miss  Grimshaw,  left  to  herself,  made  a  tour  of  the 
rooms,  set  Effie  some  sums  to  keep  her  quiet,  and  then 
retired  into  the  sitting-room  and  shut  the  door. 

It  was  now  that  the  really  desperate  condition  of 
things  that  underlay  the  comedy  of  Garryowen  ap- 
peared before  her  unveiled. 

"  If  the  horse  does  not  win  ?  " 

The  ruin  that  those  six  words  have  so  often  postu- 
lated, rank,  raw,  cold,  and  brutal,  rose  before  her. 
Horses,  cards,  dice,  wine,  tobacco — one's  dislike  of  the 
Pipers  who  cry  these  down  is  accentuated  by  the  truth 
that  underlies  their  piping. 

They  are  the  prophets  of  the  awful  telegram  which 
heralds  the  misery,  the  pinching,  and  the  poverty  that 
will  grip  you  and  your  wife  and  your  children  till  you 
are  in  your  coffins.  They  are  the  prophets  of  the  white 
dawn  that  shines  into  your  rooms  at  Oxford  when  the 
men  are  gone,  shines  on  the  card-strewn  floor  where,  like 
a  fallen  house  of  cards,  lies  the  once  fair  future  of  a 
man.  They  are  the  physicians  who  prognose  ineffi- 
ciency, failure,  old-age  at  forty — mental  death. 

Effie  would  have  two  hundred  a  year.  Nothing  could 
touch  that.  But  what  of  the  jovial  French?  She  knew 
enough  of  his  financial  affairs  to  know  that  he  would 
be  absolutely  and  utterly  ruined. 

Tears  welled  to  her  eyes  for  a  moment;  then  she 
brushed  them  away,  and  her  colour  heightened.  En- 
thusiasm suddenly  filled  her;  the  desperate  nature  of 
the  adventure  appealed  to  her  adventurous  soul.  Never 


318  GARRYOWEN 

did  a  doubter  do  any  great  work  or  carry  any  high 
adventure  to  a  successful  close.  Garryowen  would  win ! 
She  felt  that  to  doubt  it  would  be  the  act  of  a  traitor, 
and  to  believe  it  would  help  the  event. 

Shortly  after  three  the  dog-cart  hired  at  the  inn  for 
the  purpose  of  bailing  out  Mr.  Piper  arrived  with  Mr. 
Dashwood  and  his  charge. 

Mr.  Piper  looked  literally  as  though  he  had  been 
bailed  out.  The  unfortunate  man,  besides  receiving  a 
severe  rebuke  from  the  magistrates,  had  been  fined  two 
pounds,  which  Mr.  Dashwood  had  paid. 

In  Mr.  Piper's  morning  reflections,  conducted  in  the 
police  cell  at  Crowsnest,  he  had  recognised  his  false  po- 
sition, and  the  uselessness  of  kicking  against  the  pricks. 

He  knew  full  well  the  ridicule  that  attends  the  un- 
fortunate who  tries  to  explain  away  the  reason  of  his 
drunkenness ;  to  say  that  he  had  been  made  tipsy  by 
force  would,  even  if  it  obtained  his  discharge,  be  so 
noticeable  a  statement  that  the  London  Press  would  be 
sure  to  seize  upon  it.  If  the  horses  had  been  taken 
away,  it  would  be  far  better  to  put  the  fact  down  to 
the  evasion  having  been  effected  whilst  he  was  asleep, 
and  as  he  had  some  money  about  him,  he  felt  sure  of 
being  able  to  pay  any  fine  that  might  be  inflicted  on 
him.  He  was  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
kicked  the  constable. 

Mr.  Dashwood,  having  released  him,  paid  his  fine,  and 
given  him  some  soda-water  at  the  Hollborough  inn, 
sketched  for  him  the  true  position  of  affairs,  making 
him  understand  that  the  horse,  once  the  race  was  over, 
would  be  religiously  brought  back,  and  that  the  only 


GARRYOWEN  319 

course  for  him  in  the  midst  of  these  circumstances  was 
to  return  to  The  Martens,  accept  its  hospitality,  and 
wait. 

Having  left  him  there,  the  young  man,  after  a  short 
interview  with  Miss  Grimshaw,  returned  to  London. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

THE  spring  was  early  that  year.  The  swallows  must 
have  known  it,  for  they  had  returned  several  days  be- 
fore their  time,  and  to-day,  the  16th  of  April,  the  silence 
of  the  Roman  road  was  broken  by  their  twittering  and 
crossed  by  their  shadows.  The  trees  in  the  woods  were 
green  again,  the  little  river  beneath  the  bridge  was 
foaming  in  spate,  and  from  far  away  in  the  wood  depths 
came  the  moist,  sweet  sound  of  the  cuckoo,  singing  just 
as  he  sang  in  Chaucer's  time,  just  as  he  will  sing  in 
times  a  thousand  years  unborn. 

The  girl  had  freed  herself  from  Effie  and  had  wan- 
dered down  to  the  bridge,  where  she  stood  now  watching 
the  wimpling  water  and  the  brown  weeds,  listening  to 
the  cuckoo  and  the  chatter  of  the  blue-tits  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees. 

A  telegram  had  brought  her,  yesterday,  the  grand 
news  of  Garryowen's  victory,  and  this  morning's  post 
had  brought  her  two  letters — one  from  Mr.  French  and 
one  from  Mr.  Dashwood. 

From  what  she  could  gather  in  the  perusal  of  these 
letters,  each  man  was  in  love  with  her,  yet  each  was 
proposing  that  she  should  not  look  coldly  on  the  other. 

They  would  return  that  evening.  She  would  have  to 
make  up  her  mind  on  the  question,  and  she  had  come 
here,  apparently,  to  argue  the  question  out. 

Now  that  she  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  mat- 
320 


GAKRYOWEN  321 

ter,  the  chivalry  of  these  two  gentlemen  one  towards 
the  other  was  the  thing  that  perplexed  her  most. 

She  had  come  here,  apparently,  to  argue  the  matter 
out,  but,  in  reality,  her  subliminal  mind  had  already 
made  the  decision  as  to  which  of  these  two  gentlemen 
she  would  choose  as  her  natural  protector  for  life. 

She  had  no  one  to  confide  in,  no  one  to  make  a  con- 
fidant of  her  choice ;  she  had  taken  her  seat  on  a  little 
ledge  of  the  parapet,  and,  with  that  charming  impulse 
which  prompts  a  woman  to  put  her  name  on  paper 
coupled  with  the  name  of  the  man  she  loves,  the  girl, 
with  the  point  of  her  parasol,  dreamily  and  like  a 
mesmerist  under  the  dictation  of  a  spirit,  wrote  upon 
the  dust  of  the  old  road's  face — 

VIOLET 

Then,  with  a  half-blush,  she  was  preparing  to  add 
the  fateful  other  name,  and  the  blue-tits  in  the  branches 
above  were  craning  their  necks  to  see,  when  from  beyond 
the  hilltop  the  sound  of  a  motor-car  rapidly  approach- 
ing broke  the  spell. 

As  it  passed  she  was  standing  looking  at  the  river, 
and  name  on  the  dust  of  the  road  there  was  none,  nor 
anything  to  hint  of  love  but  the  graceful  figure  of  the 
girl  and  the  beauty  of  the  morning. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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